THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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SONS  AND  FATHERS 


SONS  AND  FATHERS 


BY 


HARRY  STILLWELL  EDWARDS. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  J.  W.  BURKE  COMPANY 
MACON,  GEORGIA 


PS 


THE  FIRST-PRIZE  STORY 
In  THE  CHICAGO  RECORD'S  series  of  "Stories  of  Mystery" 

SONS  AND  FATHERS 

BY 
HARRY  STILLWELL  EDWARDS 


This  story— out  of  816  competing— was  awarded  the  FIRST  PRIZE — 
$10,000— in  THE  CHICAGO  RECORD'S  "$30,OOO 
to  Authors"  competition. 


Copyright.  1896,  by  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards. 
1921     "        "  »•  »• 


SONS  AND  FATHERS 


CHAPTER  I. 
TWO  SONS 

At  a  little  station  in  one  of  the  gulf  states,  where  the  east  and  west 

£j    trains  leave  and  pick  up  a  few  passengers  daily,  there  met  in  the  sum- 

00    mer  of  1888  two  men  who  since  they  are  to  appear  frequently  in  this 

^    record,  are  worthy  of  description.    One  who  alighted  from  the  west- 

~J    bound  train  was  about  29  years  of  age.    Tall  and  slender,  he  wore  the 

j    usual  four-button  cutaway  coat,  with   vest    and   trousers   to   match, 

which,  despite  its  inappropriateness  in  such  a  climate,  was  the  dress 

of  the  young  city  man  of  the  south,  in  obedience  to  the  fashion  set    by 

the  northern  metropolis.     His  small  feet  were  incased  in  neat  half- 

<\j    moroccos,  and  his  head  protected  by  the  regulation  derby  of  that  year. 

o    There  was  an  inch  of  white  cuffs  visible  upon  his  wrists,  held  with 

silver  link  buttons,  and  an  inch  and  a  half  of  standing  collar,  points 

turned  down.    He  carried  a  small  traveling  bag  of  alligator  skin  swung 

.    lightly  over  his  left  shoulder,  after  the   English   style,   and  a   silk 

O    umbrella  in  lieu  of  a  cane.    This  man  paced  the  platform  patiently. 

*        His  neighbor  was  about  the  same  age,  dressed  in  a  plain  gray  cassi- 

>    mer  suit.    He  wore  a  soft  felt  traveling  hat  and  the  regulation  linen. 

He  was,  however,  of  heavier  build,  derived  apparently  from  free  living, 

and  restless,  since  he  moved  rapidly  from  point  to  point,  speaking  with 

|    train  hands  and  others,  his  easy,  good-fellow  air  invariably  securing 

him  courtesy.     His  face  was  full  and  a  trifle  florid,  but  very  mobile 

in  expression;  while  that  of  the  first  mentioned  was  somewhat  sallow 

and  softened  almost  to  sadness  by  gray  eyes  and  long  lashes.    As  they 


452587 


8  SONS   AND   FATHERS 

passed  each  other  the  difference  was  both  noticed  and  felt.  The  impres 
sions  that  the  two  would  have  conveyed  to  an  analyst  were  action  and 
reflection.  Perhaps  in  the  case  of  the  man  in  gray  the  impression 
would  have  been  heightened  by  sight  of  his  two  great  commercial  travel 
ing  bags  of  Russia  leather,  bearing  the  initials  "N.  M.  Jr." 

There  was  one  other  passenger  on  the  platform — a  very  handsome 
young  woman,  seated  on  her  trunk  and  trying  to  interest  herself  in  a 
pamphlet  spread  upon  her  lap,  but  from  time  to  time  she  lifted  her 
face,  and  when  the  eyes  of  the  man  glanced  her  way  she  lowered  hers 
with  a  half-smile  on  her  lips.  There  was  something  in  his  tone  and 
manner  that  disarmed  reserve. 

An  officer  in  uniform  came  from  the  little  eating-house  near  by  and 
approached  the  party. 

"Are  there  any  passengers  for  the  coast  here?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  Charleston,"  the  young  lady  said. 

"Where  are  you  from,  miss?"  Then,  seeing  her  surprise,  he  con 
tinued:  "You  must  excuse  iv>°  ~nestion  ^"A  I  am  a  Quarantine  officer 
and  Charleston  has  quarantined  against  all  points  that  have  been  ex 
posed  to  yellow  fever." 

"That,  then,  does  not  include  me,"  she  said,  confidently.  "I  am  from 
Montgomery,  where  there  is  no  yellow  fever,  and  a  strict  quarantine." 

"Have  you  a  health  certificate?" 

"A  what?" 

"A  ticket  from  any  of  the  authorities  or  physicians  in  Montgomery," 

"No,  sir;  I  am  Miss  Kitty  Blair,  and  going  to  visit  friends  in 
Charleston." 

The  officer  looked  e.nbarrassed.  The  health-certificate  regulation 
and  inland  quarantine  were  new  and  forced  him  frequently  into 
unpleasant  positions. 

"You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  finally;  "but  have  you  anything  that 
could  establish  that  fact,  visiting  cards,  correspondence — " 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  replied,  flushing  a  little,  "who  I  am  and  where 
I  am  from," 

"That  would  be  sufficient,  miss,  if  all  that  is  needed  is  a  lady's  word, 
but  I  am  compelled  to  keep  all  persons  from  the  east-bound  train  who 
cannot  prove  their  residence  in  a  non-infected  district.  The  law  is 
impartial." 

"And  I  cannot  go  on,  then?"  There  were  anxiety  and  pathos  in  her 
eyes  and  tones.  The  gentleman  in  gray  approached. 

"I  can  fix  that,  sir,"  he  said,  briskly  addressing  the  officer.     "I  am 


TWO   SONS  9 

not  personally  acquainted  with  Miss  Blair,  but  I  can  testify  to  what 
she  says  as  true.  I  have  seen  her  in  Montgomery  almost  daily.  My 
name  is  Montjoy — Norton  Montjoy,  Jr.  Here  are  my  letters  and  my 
baggage  is  over  yonder." 

"Are  you  a  son  of  Col.  Norton  Montjoy  of  Georgia,  colonel  of  the  old 
'fire-eaters,'  as  we  used  to  call  the  regiment?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  and  a  happy  smile  illumined  his  face. 

"My  name  is  Throckmorton,"  said  the  officer.  "I  followed  your 
father  three  years  during  the  war,  and  you  are — by  Jove!  you  are  the 
brat  that  they  once  brought  to  camp  and  introduced  as  the  latest  in 
fantry  recruit!  Well,  I  see  the  likeness  now." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  fervently.  The  officer  bowed  to  the  lady. 
"The  matter  is  all  right,"  he  said,  smiling;  "I  will  give  you  a  paper 
presently  that  will  carry  you  through."  The  new  friends  then  walked 
aside  talking  with  animation.  The  quarantine  officer  soon  got  into  war 
anecdotes.  The  other  stranger  was  now  left  to  the  amusement  of 
watching  -the  varying  expressions  of  the  girl's  face.  She  continued 
low  over  her  book  and  began  to  laugh.  Presently,  with  a  supreme  ef 
fort  she  recovered  herself.  Montjoy  had  shaken  off  his  father's  ad 
mirer  and  was  coming  her  way.  She  looked  up  shyly.  "I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  getting  me  out  of  trouble;  I " 

"Don't  mention  it,  miss;  these  fellows  havn't  much  discretion." 

"But  what  a  fib  it  was!" 

"How;" 

"I  haven't  been  in  Montgomery  in  two  weeks.  I  came  here  from  an 
aunt's  in  Macon." 

"And  I  haven't  been  there  in  six  months ! "  His  laugh  was  hearty  and 
infectious.  "Here  comes  your  train;  let  me  put  you  aboard."  He 
secured  her  a  seat;  the  repentant  quarantine  officer  supplied  her  with 
a  ticket,  and  then,  shaking  hands  again  with  his  father's  friend, 
Montjoy  hurried  to  the  southwester,  which  was  threatening  to  get 
under  way.  The  other  traveler  was  in  and  had  a  window  open  on  the 
shady  side. 

There  were  men  only  in  the  car,  and  as  Montjoy  entered  he  drew  off 
his  coat  and  dropped  it  upon  his  bags.  The  motion  of  the  starting 
train  did  not  add  to  his  comfort.  The  red  dust  poured  in  through  the 
open  windows,  invading  and  irritating  the  lungs.  He  thought  of  the 
moonlit  roof  gardens  in  New  York  with  something  like  a  groan. 

"Confound  such  a  road!"  and  down  went  the  book  he  was  seriously 


10  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

trying  to  lose  himself  in.  His  silent  companion's  face  was  lifted 
toward  him: 

"A  railroad  company  that  will  run  cars  like  this  on  such  a  schedule 
ought  to  be  abolished,  the  officers  imprisoned,  track  torn  up  and  rolling 
stock  burned!  But  then,"  he  continued,  "I  am  the  fool.  I  ought  not 
to  have  come  by  this  God-forsaken  route." 

"It  is  certainly  not  pleasant  traveling  to-day,"  his  companion 
remarked,  sympathetically,  showing  even,  white  teeth  under  his  brown 
mustache.  Montjoy  had  returned  to  his  seat,  but  the  smooth,  even, 
musical  tones  of  the  other  echoed  in  his  memory.  He  glanced  back 
and  presently  came  and  took  a  seat  near  by. 

"Are  you  a  resident  of  the  south?"  It  was  the  stranger  who  spoke 
first.  This  delicate  courtesy  was  not  lost  on  Montjoy. 

"Yes.  That  is,  I  count  myself  a  citizen  of  this  state.  But  I  sell 
dothing  for  a  New  York  house  and  am  away  from  home  i  great  deal." 

"You  delivered  the  young  lady  at  the  junction  from  quite  a 
predicament." 

"Didn't  I,  though!  Well,  she  is  evidently  a  fine  little  woman  and 
pretty.  Lies  for  a  pretty  woman  don't  count.  By  the  way — may  I  ask? 
What  line  of  business  are  you  in." 


CHAPTER     II. 
THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD. 

"I  am  not  in  business,"  said  the  other.  "I  am  a  nephew  of  John 
Morgan,  of  Macon.  I  suppose  you  must  have  known  him." 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"And  am  going  out  to  wind  up  his  affairs.  I  have  been  abroad  and 
have  only  just  returned.  The  news  of  his  death  was  quite  a  surprise 
to  me.  I  had  not  been  informed  that  he  was  ill." 

"Then  you  are  the  heir  of  John  Morgan?" 

"I  am  told  so.  It  is  but  three  days  now  since  I  reached  this  country, 
and  I  have  no  information  except  as  contained  in  a  brief  notice  from 
attorneys." 

"How  long  since  you  have  seen  him?" 

"I  have  never  seen  him — at  least  not  since  I  was  an  infant,  if  then. 
My  parents  left  me  to  his  care.  I  have  spent  my  life  in  schools  until 
six  or  seven  years  ago,  when,  after  graduating  at  Harvard  and  then  at 
Columbia  college  in  law,  I  went  abroad.  Have  never  seen  so  much  as 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD  11 

the  picture  of  my  uncle.  I  applied  to  him  for  one  through  his  New 
York  lawyer  once,  sending  a  new  one  of  myself,  and  he  replied  that  he 
had  too  much  respect  for  art  to  have  his  taken." 

"That  sounds  like  him,"  and  Montjoy  laughed  heartily.  "He  was  a 
florid,  sandy-haired  man,  with  eyes  always  half-closed  against  the 
light,  stout  and  walked  somewhat  heavily.  He  has  been  a  famous 
criminal  lawyer,  but  for  many  years  has  not  seemed  to  care  for  prac 
tice.  He  was  a  heavy  drinker,  but  with  all  that  you  could  rely  implic 
itly  upon  what  he  said.  He  left  a  large  property,  I  presume?" 

"So  I  infer."  Edward  looked  out  of  the  window,  but  presently  re 
sumed  the  conversation. 

"My  uncle  stood  well  in  the  community,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes;  we  have  lost  a  good  citizen.  Do  you  expect  to  make  your 
home  with  us?" 

"That  depends  upon  circumstances.    Very  likely  I  shall." 

"I  see !  Well,  sir,  I  trust  you  will.  The  Morgan  place  is  a  nice  one 
and  has  been  closed  to  the  young  people  too  long." 

"I  am  afraid  they  will  not  find  me  very  gay."  A  shadow  flitted 
over  his  face,  blotting  out  the  faint  smile. 

The  towns  and  villages  glided  away. 

Edward  Morgan  noticed  that  there  was  little  paint  upon  the  country 
houses,  and  that  the  fences  were  gone  from  the  neighborhoods.  And 
then  the  sun  sank  below  the  black  cloud,  painting  its  peaks  with  gold, 
and  filling  the  caverns  with  yellow  light;  church  spires,  tall  buildings 
and  electric-light  towers  filed  by  with  solemn  dignity  and  then  stood 
motionless.  The  journey  was  at  an  end. 

''My  home  is  six  miles  out,"  said  Montjoy,  "and  if  you  will  go  with 
me  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you.  It  is  quite  a  ride,  but  anything  is  pre 
ferable  to  the  hotels." 

Morgan's  face  lighted  up  quickly  at  this  unexpected  courtesy. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  "but  I  don't  mind  the  hotels.  I  have  never  had 
any  other  home,  sir,  except  boarding  houses."  Through  his  smile 
there  fell  the  little,  destroying  shadow.  Montjoy  had  not  expected 
him  to  accept,  but  he  turned  now,  with  his  winning  manner. 

"Well,  then,  I  insist.  We  shall  find  a  wagon  waiting  outside,  and 
to-morrow  I  am  coming  in  and  shall  bring  you  back.  We  will  have 
to  get  acquainted  some  of  these  days,  and  there  is  nothing  like  making 
an  early  start."  He  was  already  heading  for  the  sidewalk;  his  company 
was  as  sunlight  and  Morgan  was  tempted  to  stay  in  the  sunlight. 

"Then  I  shall  go,"  he  said.    "You  are  very  kind." 


12  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

A  four-seated  vehicle  stood  outside  and  by  it  a  little  old  negro,  who 
laughed  as  Mont  joy  rapidly  approached. 

"Well,  Isam,"  he  said,  tossing  his  bag  in,  "how  are  all  at  home?" 

"Dey's  all  well." 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Morgan,  we  shall  leave  your  trunks,  but  I  can 
supply  you  with  everything  for  a  'one-night  stand.'  " 

"I  have  a  valise  that  will  answer,  if  there  is  room." 

"Plenty.  Let  Isam  have  the  check  and  he  will  get  it."  While 
Morgan  was  feeling  for  his  bit  of  brass  Isam  continued: 

"Miss  Annie  will  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you.  Sent  me  in  here  now 
goin'  on  fo'  times  an'  gettin'  madder — 

"That's  all  right;  here's  the  check;  hurry  up."  The  negro  started 
off  rapidly. 

"Drive  by  the  club,  Isam,"  he  said,  when  the  negro  had  resumed  the 
lines.  "I  reckon  we'll  be  too  late  for  supper  at  home;  better  get  it  in 
town." 

"Miss  Mary  save  supper  for  you,  sho',  Marse  Norton." 

"Save,  the  mischief!  Go  ahead!"  The  single  horse  moved  forward 
in  a  dignified  trot. 

As  they  entered  the  club  several  young  men  were  grouped  near  a 
center  table.  There  was  a  vista  of  open  doors,  a  glimmer  of  cards  and 
the  crash  of  billiards.  Montjoy  walked  up  and  dropped  his  hat  on  the 
table.  There  followed  a  general  handshaking.  Edward  Morgan  noticed 
that  they  greeted  him  with  cordiality.  Then  he  saw  his  manner  change 
and  he  turned  with  a  show  of  formality. 

"Gentlemen,  this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Morgan,  a  nephew  of  Col.  John 
Morgan."  He  rapidly  pronounced  the  names  of  those  present,  and  each 
shook  the  newcomer's  hand.  At  the  same  time  Morgan  felt  their  sudden 
scrutiny,  but  it  was  brief.  Montjoy  rang  the  bell. 

"What  are  you  going  to  have,  gentlemen?  John,"  to  the  old  waiter, 
"how  are  you,  John?" 

"First  rate,  Marse  Norton;  first  rate."  The  old  man  bowed  and 
smiled. 

"Take  these  orders,  John.  Five  toddies,  one  Rhine  wine,  and  hurry, 
John!  Oh,  John!"  The  worthy  came  back.  "There  is  only  one  mis 
take  you  can  make  with  mine;  take  care  about  the  water!" 

"All  right,  sah,  all  right!    Dare  won't  be  any!" 

Montjoy  ordered  a  tremendous  supper,  as  he  called  it,  and  while 
waiting  the  half -hour  for  its  preparation,  several  of  the  party  repeated 
the  order  for  refreshments,  it  appeared  to  the  stranger,  with  some- 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD        13 

thing  like  anxiety.  It  was  as  though  they  feared  an  opportunity  to 
return  the  courtesies  they  had  accepted  would  not  be  given.  None 
joined  them  at  supper,  but  when  the  newcomers  were  seated  one  of 
the  gentlemen  lounged  near  and  dropping  into  a  seat  renewed  the  con 
versation  that  had  been  interrupted.  Champagne  had  been  added  to 
the  supper  and  this  gentleman  yielded  at  length  to  Montjoy's  demand 
and  joined  them. 

The  conversation  ran  upon  local  politics  until  Morgan  began  to  feel 
the  isolation.  He  took  to  studying  the  new  man  and  presently  felt  the 
slight,  inexplicable  prejudice  that  he  had  formed  upon  the  introduc 
tion,  wearing  away.  The  man  was  tall,  dark  and  straightly  built,  prob 
ably  thirty  years  of  age,  with  fine  eyes  and  unchanging  countenance. 
He  did  but  little  talking,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was  with  great  delibera 
tion  and  positiveness.  If  there  were  an  unpleasant  shading  of  charac 
ter  written  there  it  was  in  the  mouth,  which,  while  not  ill-formed, 
seemed  to  promise  a  relentless  disposition.  But  the  high  and  noble 
forehead  redeemed  it  all.  This  man  was  now  addressing  him: 

"You  will  remain  some  time  in  Macon,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

The  voice  possessed  but  few  curves;  it  grated  a  trifle  upon  the 
stranger. 

"I  cannot  tell  as  yet,"  he  said;  "I  do  not  know  what  will  be  required 
of  me." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  you  at  my  place  of  business  when 
ever  you  find  an  opportunity  of  calling.  Norton,  bring  Mr.  Morgan 
down  to  see  me." 

He  laid  his  card  by  Edward  and  bade  them  good-evening.  Looking 
over  his  plate,  the  latter  read  H.  R.  Barksdale,  president  A.  F.  &  C. 
railroad.  He  had  not  caught  the  name  in  the  general  introduction. 
"Good  fellow,"  said  Montjoy,  between  mouthfuls;  "talked  more  to-niyht 
than  I  ever  heard  him,  and  never  knew  him  to  pull  a  card  before." 

The  night  was  dark.  The  road  ran  over  hills,  but  sometimes  was 
sandy  enough  to  reduce  the  horse  to  his  slowest  gait.  "From  this 
point,"  said  Montjoy,  looking  back,  "you  can  see  the  city  five  miles 
away,  rather  a  good  view  in  the  daytime,  but  now  only  the  scattered 
electric  lights  show  up." 

"It  looks  like  the  south  of  France,"  said  Morgan.  Montjoy  revealed 
the  direction  of  his  thoughts. 

"You  will  find  thing's  at  home  very  different  from  what  they  once 
were,"  he  put  in.  "With  free  labor  the  plantations  have  run  down, 
and  it  is  very  hard  for  the  old  planters  to  make  anything  out  of  land 


14  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

now.  The  negroes  won't  work  and  it  hardly  pays  to  plant  cotton.  I 
wish  often  that  father  could  do  something  else,  but  he  can't  change 
at  his  time  of  life." 

"Could  not  the  young  men  do  better  with  the  plantations?" 

"Young  men !  My  dear  sir,  the  young  men  can't  afford  to  work  the 
plantations;  it  is  at  much  as  they  can  do  to  make  a  living  in  town — 
most  of  them," 

"Is  there  room  for  all?" 

"No,  indeed!  They  are  having  a  hard  time  of  it,  I  reckon,  and 
salaries  are  getting  smaller  every  year." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Morgan,  slowly,  "that  labor  is  the  wealth  of  a 
country.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  they  expect  to  make  anything  out  of 
this,  they  must  labor  in  the  productive  branches.  Where  does  the 
support  for  all  come  from?" 

"From  the  farms —  from  cotton,  mostly." 

"The  negro  is,  then,  after  all,  the  productive  agent." 

Montjoy  thought  a  moment,  then  replied: 

"Yes,  as  a  rule.  Manufacturing  is  increasing  and  there  is  some  de 
velopment  in  mining,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  negroes  and  the  poor 
whites  of  the  country  keep  the  balance  up.  Somebody  has  got  to  sweat 
it  out  between  the  plow  handles,  but  you  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar 
that  Montjoy  is  out.  I  couldn't  make  $100  a  year  on  the  best  planta 
tion  in  Georgia,  but  I  can  make  $5,000  selling  clothing." 

The  dignified  horse  had  climbed  his  last  hill  for  the  night  and  was 
just  turning  into  an  avenue,  when  a  dark  form  came  plunging  out  of 
the  shadow  and  collided  with  him  violently.  Morgan  beheld  a  rider 
almost  unhorsed  and  heard  an  oath.  For  an  instant  only  he  saw  the 
man's  face,  white  and  malignant,  and  then  it  disappeared  in  the 
darkness.  To  Montjoy's  greeting,  good-naturedly  hurled  into  the 
night,  there  came  no  reply. 

"My  wife's  cousin."  he  said,  laughing.  "I  am  glad  it  is  not  my 
horse  he  is  riding  to-night." 

They  came  up  in  front  of  a  large  house  with  Corinthian  columns 
and  many  lights.  There  was  a  sudden  movement  of  chairs  upon  the 
long  veranda  and  then  a  young  woman  came  slowly  down  to  the  gate 
and  lifted  her  face  to  Montjoy's  kiss.  A  pretty  boy  of  five  climbed 
into  his  arms.  Morgan  stood  silent,  touched  by  the  scene.  He  started 
violently  as  Norton  Montjoy,  remembering  his  presence,  called  his 
name.  The  woman  extended  her  hand. 

"I  am  very  glad  to    see  you,"   she   said,   accenting  the   adjective. 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD        15 

Morgan,  sensitive  to  fine  impressions,  did  not  like  the  voice,  although 
the  courtesy  was  perfect. 

They  advanced  to  the  porch.  An  old  gentleman  was  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  steps.  In  the  light  streaming  from  the  hallway  Morgan 
saw  that  he  was  tall  and  soldierly  and  with  gray  hair  pressed  back  in 
great  waves  from  the  temples.  He  put  one  arm  around  his  son  and  the 
other  around  his  grandson,  but  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  the  guest. 
While  he  addressed  words  of  welcome  and  chiding  to  the  former,  he 
was  slowly  extending  his  right  hand,  seeing  which  the  son  said  gayly: 

"Mr.  Morgan,  father — a  nephew  of  Col.  John  Morgan."  The  light 
fell  upon  the  half-turned  face  of  the  old  gentleman  and  showed  it 
lighted  by  a  mild  and  benevolent  expression  and  dawning  smile. 

"Indeed!    Come  in,  Mr.  Morgan,  come  in;  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

The  words  were  cordial  and  tone  of  voice  perfect,  but  to  Edward 
there  seemed  a  shading  of  surprise  in  the  prolonged  gaze  that  rested 
upon  him. 

Norton  had  passed  on  to  the  end  of  the  porch,  where  an  elderly  lady 
sat  upright,  prevented  from  rising  by  a  little  girl  asleep  in  her  lap. 
There  were  sounds  of  repeated  kisses  as  she  embraced  her  overgrown 
boy,  and  then  her  voice : 

"The  Duchess  tried  to  keep  her  eyes  open  for  you,  but  she  could  not. 
Why  are  you  so  late?"  Her  voice  was  as  the  winds  in  the  pines,  and 
the  hand  she  gave  to  Morgan  a  moment  later  was  as  cool  as  chamois 
and  as  soft. 

A  young  girl  had  come  to  the  doorway.  She  was  simply  dressed  In 
white  and  her  abundant  hair  was  twisted  into  the  Grecian  knot  that 
makes  some  women  appear  more  womanly.  She  put  her  arms  about  the 
big  brother  and  gave  her  little  hand  to  Morgan.  For  a  moment  their 
eyes  met,  and  then,  gently  disengaging  her  hand,  she  went  to  lean 
against  her  father's  chair,  softly  stroking  his  white  hair,  while  the 
conversation  went  'round. 

"Mary,"  said  the  older  woman,  presently,  "Mr.  Morgan  and  Norton 
have  had  a  long  ride  and  must  be  hungry." 

"No,"  said  the  latter,  checking  the  girl's  sudden  movement,  "we  have 
had  something  to  eat  in  town." 

"You  should  have  waited,  my  son;  it  was  a  needless  expense,"  said 
the  mother,  gently.  "But  I  am  afraid  you  will  never  practice  economy." 
Norton  laughed  and  did  not  dispute  the  proposition.  The  young  mother 
and  children  disappeared,  and  Norton  gave  a  spirited  account  of  the 
quarantine  incident  without  securing  applause. 


16  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  colonel  to  his  guest  presently,  when  con 
versation  had  lulled,  "that  you  are  a  nephew  of  John  Morgan.  I  did 
not  know  that  he  had  brothers  or  sisters " 

"I  am  not  really  a  nephew,"  said  Morgan,  quietly,  "but  a  distant 
relative  and  always  taught  to  regard  him  as  uncle."  Something  in  his 
voice  made  the  young  girl  lift  her  eyes.  His  figure  in  the  half-light 
where  he  sat  was  immovable.  Against  the  white  column  beyond,  his 
head,  graceful  in  its  outlines,  was  sharply  silhouetted.  It  was  bent 
slightly  forward;  and  while  they  remained  upon  the  porch,  ever  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice  she  would  turn  her  eyes  slowly  and  let  them 
rest  upon  the  speaker.  But  she  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  III. 
A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

The  room  in  which  Edward  Morgan  opened  his  eyes  next  morning 
was  large  and  the  ceiling  low.  The  posts  of  the  bed  ran  up  to  within 
a  foot  of  the  latter  and  supported  a  canopy.  There  was  no  carpet,  the 
curtains  were  of  chintz  and  the  lambrequins  evidently  home  made. 
The  few  pictures  on  the  wall  were  portraits,  in  frames  made  of  pine 
cones,  with  clusters  of  young  cones  at  the  corners.  There  were  home 
made  brackets,  full  of  swamp  grasses.  The  bureau  had  two  miniature 
Tuscan  columns,  between  which  was  hung  a  swivel  glass.  All  was 
homely  but  clean  and  suggestive  of  a  woman's  presence.  And  through 
the  open  windows  there  floated  a  delicious  atmosphere,  fresh,  cool  and 
odorous,  with  the  bloom-breath  of  tree  and  shrub. 

He  stepped  out  of  bed  and  looked  forth.  For  a  mile  ran  the  great 
fields  of  cotton  and  corn,  with  here  and  there  a  cabin  and  its  curl  of 
smoke.  A  flock  of  pigeons  were  walking  about  the  barn  doors,  and  a 
number  of  goats  waited  at  the  side  gate,  which  led  into  a  broad  back 
yard.  In  the  distance  he  could  see  negroes  in  the  fields,  hear  their 
songs  and  the  "clank"  of  a  little  grist-mill  in  the  valley. 

But  sweeping  all  other  sounds  from  mind,  he  heard  also  another 
musical  voice  calling  "Chick!  chick!  chickee,  chickee!"  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  fowls  hurrying  from  every  direction  toward  the  back  yard. 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH         17 

He  plunged  his  head  into  a  basin  of  cool  water,  and  presently  he  was 
dressed. 

The  front  door  was  open,  as  it  had  remained  all  night,  the  chairs  on 
the  porch,  with  here  and  there  books  and  papers,  when  Edward  Morgan 
walked  out.  The  yard  was  spacious  and  full  of  plants.  Sunflowers 
and  poke-berries  were  growing  along  the  front  fence,  and  mocking 
birds,  cardinals  and  jays,  their  animosities  suspended,  were  breakfast 
ing  side  by  side.  His  walk  carried  him  to  the  side  of  the  house,  and, 
looking  across  the  low  picket  fence,  he  saw  Mary.  Her  sleeves  were 
rolled  up  above  the  elbows  and  her  arms  covered  with  dough  from  a 
great  pan  into  which,  from  time  to  time,  she  thrust  a  hand.  A  multi 
tude  of  ducks,  chickens,  turkeys  and  guineas  scrambled  about  her, 
and  a  dozen  white  pigeons  struggled  for  standing-room  upon  her 
shoulders. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  called. 

"If  you  can  stand  it,  Mr.  Morgan."  There  was  not  the  slightest 
embarrassment;  the  brown  eyes  were  frank  and  encouraging;  he 
placed  his  hands  upon  the  fence  and  leaped  lightly  over. 

"What  a  family  you  have!"  he  said.  She  smiled,  turning  her  face 
to  him  as  she  scattered  dough  and  gently  pushed  away  the  troublesome 
birds. 

"Many  birds'  mouths  to  fill;  and  they  will  have  to  fill  some  mouths 
too,  one  of  these  days,  poor  things." 

"That  is  but  fair." 

"I  suppose  so;  but  what  a  mission  in  life — just  to  fill  somebody's 
mouth." 

"The  mission  of  many  poor  men  and  women  I  have  seen,"  he  said, 
"is  merely  to  fill  mouths.  And  sometimes  they  get  so  poor  they  can't 
do  that." 

"And  sometimes  chickens  get  the  same  way,"  she  said,  sagely,  at 
which  both  laughed  outright.  Her  face  resumed  its  placid  expression 
almost  instantly.  "It  must  be  sad  to  be  very  poor;  how  I  wish  they 
could  arrange  for  all  of  the  poor  people  to  come  out  here  and  find 
homes;  there  seems  to  be  so  much  land  wasted." 

"They  would  not  stay  long  anywhere  away  from  the  city,"  he  said; 
"but  do  you  never  sigh  for  city  life?" 

"I  prefer  it,"  she  replied,  simply,  "but  we  cannot  afford  it.  And 
there  is  no  one  to  take  care  of  this  place.  It  is  harder  on  Annie, 
brother's  wife.  She  simply  detests  the  country.  When  I  graduated—" 


18  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"You  graduated!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  incredulously.  She  looked 
at  him  surprised. 

"Yes,  I  am  young,  seventeen  this  month,  but  that  is  not  extraordinary. 
Mamma  graduated  at  the  same  age,  sixteen,  forty  years  ago."  A 
servant  approached,  spoon  in  hand. 

"Want  some  more  lard,  missy."  She  took  her  bunch  of  keys,  and 
selecting  one  that  looked  like  the  bastile  memento  at  Mount  Vernon, 
unlocked  the  smoke-house  door  and  waited.  "Half  of  that  will  do, 
Gincy,"  she  said,  not  looking  around  as  she  talked  with  Morgan,  and 
the  woman  returned  half. 

"Now,"  she  continued  to  him,  "I  must  go  see  about  the  milking." 

"I  will  go,  too,  if  you  do  not  object!  This  is  all  new  and  enjoyable." 
They  came  to  where  the  women  were  at  work.  As  they  stood  looking 
on,  a  calf  came  up  and  stood  by  the  girl's  side,  letting  her  rub  its 
sensitive  ears.  A  little  kid  approached,  too,  and  bleated. 

"Aunt  Mollie,"  Mary  asked,  "  has  its  mother  come  up  yet?" 

"No,  ma'am.     Spec'  somep'n  done,  cotch  her!" 

"See  if  he  will  drink  some  cow's  milk — give  me  the  cup."  She  offered 
him  a  little,  and  the  hungry  animal  drank  eagerly.  "Let  him  stay  in 
the  yard  until  he  gets  large  enough  to  feed  himself."  Then  turning 
to  Morgan,  laughing,  she  said:  "I  expect  you  are  hungry,  too;  I 
wonder  why  papa  does  not  come." 

"Is  he  up?" 

"Oh,  yes;  he  goes  about  early  in  the  morning — there  he  comes  now!" 
The  soldierly  form  of  the  old  man  was  seen  out  among  the  pines. 
"Bring  in  breakfast,  Gincy,"  she  called,  and  presently  several  negroes 
sped  across  the  yard,  carrying  smoking  dishes  into  the  cool  basement 
dining-room.  Then  the  bell  rang. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairway  Morgan  had  an  opportunity  to  better  see 
his  hostess.  The  lady  was  slender  and  moved  with  deliberation.  Her 
gray  hair  was  brightened  by  eyes  that  seemed  to  swim  with  light  and 
sympathy.  The  dress  was  a  black  silk,  old  in  fashion  and  texture,  but 
there  was  real  lace  at  the  throat  and  wrists,  and  a  little  lace  headdress. 
She  smiled  upon  the  young  man  and  gave  him  her  plump  hand  as  he 
offered  to  assist  her. 

"I  hope  you  slept  well,"  she  said;  "no  ghosts!  That  part  of  the 
house  you  were  in  is  said  to  be  one  hundred  years  old,  and  must  be  full 
of  memories." 

They  stood  for  grace,  and  then  Mary  took  her  place  behind  the 
coffee  pot  and  served  the  delicious  beverage  in  thin  cups  of  china. 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH         19 

The  meal  consisted  of  broiled  chicken,  hot,  light  biscuits,  bread  of 
cornmeal,  and  eggs  that  Morgan  thought  delicious,  corn  cakes,  bacon 
and  fine  butter.  A  little  darky  behind  an  enormous  apron,  but  bare 
footed,  stood  by  the  coffee  pot  and  with  a  great  brush  of  the  gorgeous 
peacock  feathers  kept  the  few  flies  off  the  tiny  caster  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  while  his  eyes  followed  the  conversation  around.  Pres 
ently  there  was  a  clatter  on  the  stairs  and  the  little  boy  came  down 
and  climbed  into  his  high  chair.  He  was  bare-footed  and  evidently 
ready  for  breakfast,  as  he  took  a  biscuit  and  bit  it.  The  colonel  looked 
severely  at  him, 

"Put  your  biscuit  down,"  he  said,  quietly  but  sternly,  "and  wait  out 
side  now  until  the  others  are  through.  You  came  in  after  grace  and 
you  have  not  said  good-morning."  The  boy's  countenance  clouded  and 
he  began  to  pick  at  his  knife  handle;  the  grandmother  said,  gently: 

"He'll  not  do  it  again,  grandpa,  and  he  is  hungry,  I  know.  Let  him 
off  this  time."  Grandpa  assumed  a  very  severe  expression  as  he  re 
plied,  promptly: 

"Very  well,  madam;  let  him  say  grace  and  stay,  under  those  cir 
cumstances."  The  company  waited  on  him,  he  hesitated,  swelled  up 
as  if  about  to  cry  and  said,  earnestly:  "Gimme  somep'n  to  eat,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  amen."  Grandma  smiled  benignly,  but  Mary  and  grandpa 
were  convulsed.  Then  other  footfalls  were  heard  on  the  stairs  outside, 
as  if  some  one  were  coming  down  by  placing  the  same  foot  in  front 
each  time.  Presently  in  walked  a  blue-eyed,  golden-heared,  barefooted 
girl  of  three,  who  went  straight  to  the  colonel  and  held  up  her  arms. 
He  lifted  her  and  pressed  the  little  cheek  to  his. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "here  comes  the  Duchess."  He  gave  her  a  plate  next 
to  his,  and  taking  her  fork  she  ate  demurely,  from  time  to  time  watch 
ing  Morgan. 

"Papa  ain't  up  yet,"  volunteered  the  boy.  "He  told  mamma  to  throw 
his  clothes  in  the  creek  as  he  wouldn't  have  any  more  use  for  them/ — 
ain'  going  to  get  up  any  more." 

"Mamma,  does  your  eye  hurt  you?"  said  Mary,  seeing  the  white  hand 
for  the  second  time  raised  to  her  face. 

"A  little.    The  same  old  pain." 

"Mamma,"  she  explained  to  Morgan,  "has  lost  the  sight  of  one  eye 
by  neuralgia,  tho  you  would  never  suspect  it.  She  still  suffers  dread 
fully  at  times  from  the  same  trouble." 

Presently  the  elder  lady  excused  herself,  the  daughter  watching  her 
anxiously  as  she  slowly  disappeared. 


20  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Norton  Montjoy  and  Edward  Morgan 
reached  the  law  office  of  Ellison  Eldridge.  As  they  entered  Morgan 
saw  a  clean-shaven  man  of  frank,  open  expression.  Norton  spoke: 

"Judge,  this  is  Mr.  Edward  Morgan — you  have  corresponded  with 
him."  Morgan  felt  the  sudden  penetrating  look  of  the  lawyer.  Montjoy 
was  already  saying  au  revoir  and  hastening  out,  waving  off  Edward's 
thanks  as  he  went. 

"Will  see  you  later,"  he  called  back  from  the  stairway,  "and  don't 
forget  your  promise  to  the  old  folks." 

"You  got  my  letter,  Mr.  Morgan?    Please  be  seated." 

"Yes;  three  days  since,  in  New  York,  through  Fuller  &  Fuller.  You 
have,  I  believe,  the  will  of  the  late  John  Morgan." 

"A  copy  of  it.  The  will  is  already  probated."  He  went  to  his  safe 
and  returned  with  a  document  and  a  bunch  of  keys.  "Shall  I  read 
it  to  you?" 

"If  you  please." 

The  lawyer  read,  after  the  usual  recitation  that  begins  such  docu 
ments,  as  follows:  "Do  create,  name  and  declare  Edward  Morgan  of 
the  city  of  New  York  my  lawful  heir  to  all  property,  real  and  personal, 
of  which  I  may  die  possessed.  And  I  hereby  name  as  executor  of  this 
my  last  will  and  testament,  Ellison  Eldridge  of  state  afore 
said,  relieving  said  Ellison  Eldridge  of  bond  as  executor  and  giving 
him  full  power  to  wind  up  my  estate,  pay  all  debts  and  settle  with  the 
heir  as  named,  without  the  order  of  or  returns  to  any  court,  and  for 
his  services  in  this  connection  a  lien  of  $10,000  in  his  favor  is  hereby 
created  upon  said  estate,  to  be  paid  in  full  when  the  residue  of  property 
is  transferred  to  the  said  Edward  Morgan,"  etc. 

"The  property,  aside  from  Ilexhurst,  his  late  home,"  continued  Judge 
Eldridge,  "consists  of  $630,000  in  government  bonds.  These  I  have 
in  a  safety-deposit  company.  I  see  the  amount  surprises  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man;  "I  am  surprised  by  the  amount."  He 
gave  himself  up  to  thought  for  a  few  moments. 

"The  keys,"  said  Eldridge,  "he  gave  me  a  few  days  before  his  death, 
stating  that  they  were  for  you  only,  and  that  the  desk  in  his  room  at 
home,  which  they  fitted,  contained  no  property." 

"You  knew  Mr.  Morgan  well,  I  presume?"  said  the  young  man. 

"Yes,  and  no.  I  have  seen  him  frequently  for  a  great  many  years, 
but  no  man  knew  him  intimately.  He  was  eccentric,  but  a  fine  lawyer 
and  a  very  able  man.  One  day  he  came  in  here  to  execute  this  will  and 
left  it  with  me.  He  referred  to  it  again  but  once  and  that  was 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH         21 

when  he  came  to  bring  your  address  and  photograph." 

"Was  there — anything  marked — or  strange — in  his  life?" 

"Nothing  beyond  what  I  have  outlined.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and 
beyond  an  occasional  party  to  gentlemen  in  his  house,  when  he  spared 
no  expense,  and  regular  attendance  upon  the  theater,  he  had  few  amuse 
ments.  He  inherited  some  money;  the  balance  he  accumulated  in  his 
practice  and  by  speculation,  I  suppose.  The  amount  is  several  times 
larger  than  I  suspected.  His  one  great  vice  was  drink.  He  would 
get  on  his  sprees  two  or  three  times  a  year,  but  always  at  home.  There 
he  would  shut  himself  up  and  drink  until  his  housekeeper  called  in  the 
doctors."  Morgan  waited  in  silence;  there  was  nothing  else  and  he 
rose  abruptly. 

"Judge,  we  will  wind  up  this  matter  in  a  few  days.  Here  are  your 
letters,  and  John  Morgan's  to  me,  and  letters  from  Fuller  &  Fuller, 
who  have  known  me  for  many  years  and  have  acted  as  agents  for  both 
Col.  Morgan  and  myself.  If  more  proof  is  desired " 

"These  are  sufficient.  Your  photograph  is  accurate.  May  I  ask 
how  you  are  related  to  Col.  Morgan?" 

"Distantly  only.  The  fact  is  I  am  almost  as  nearly  alone  in  the  world 
as  he  was.  I  must  have  your  advice  touching  other  matters.  I  shall 
return,  very  likely,  in  the  morning." 

Upon  the  street  Edward  Morgan  walked  as  in  a  dream.  Strange 
to  say,  the  information  imparted  to  him  had  been  depressing.  He 
called  a  carriage. 

"Take  me  out  to  John  Morgan's,"  he  said,  briefly- 

"De  colonel's  done  dead,  sah!" 

"I  know,  but  the  house  is  still  there,  is  it  not?" 

The  driver  conveyed  the  rebuke  to  his  bony  horse,  in  the  shape  of  a 
sharp  lash,  and  secured  a  reasonably  fair  gait.  Once  or  twice  he 
ventured  observations  upon  the  character  of  the  deceased. 

"Col.  Morgan's  never  asked  nobody  'how  much'  when  dey  drive  'im; 
he  des  fling  down  half  er  doller  an'  go  long  'bout  es  business.  Look  to 
me,  young  marster,  like  you  sorter  got  de  Morgan's  eye.  Is  you  kinned 
to  'im?" 

"I  employed  you  to  drive,  not  to  talk,"  said  Edward,  sharply. 

"Dere  now,  dat's  des  what  Col.  Morgan  say!" 

The  negro  gave  vent  to  a  little  pacifying  laugh  and  was  silent.  The 
shadow  on  the  young  man's  face  was  almost  black  when  he  got  out 
of  the  hack  in  front  of  the  Morgan  house  and  tossed  the  old  negro 
a  dollar. 


22  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Oom-hoo!"     said   that   worthy,   significantly.      "Oo-hoo!"     What 
I  tole  you?" 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  MOTHER'S  ROOM. 

The  house  before  which  Morgan  stood  overlooked  the  city  two  miles 
away  and  was  the  center  of  a  vast  estate  now  run  to  weeds.  It  was 
a  fine  example  of  the  old  style  of  southern  architecture.  The  spacious 
roof,  embattled,  but  unbroken  by  gable  or  tower,  was  supported  in 
front  by  eight  massive  columns  that  were  intended  to  be  Ionic.  The 
space  between  them  and  the  house  constituted  the  veranda,  and  open 
ing  from  the  center  of  the  house  upon  this  was  a  great  doorway,  flanked 
by  windows.  This  arrangement  was  repeated  in  the  story  above,  a 
balcony  taking  the  place  of  the  door.  The  veranda  and  columns  were 
reproduced  on  both  sides  of  the  house,  running  back  to  two  one-story 
wings.  The  house  was  of  slight  elevation  and  entered  in  front  by  six 
marble  steps,  flanked  by  carved  newel  posts  and  curved  rails;  the  front 
grounds  were  a  hundred  yards  wide  and  fifty  deep,  inclosed  by  a  heavy 
railing  of  iron.  These  details  came  to  him  afterward ;  he  did  not  even 
see  at  that  time  the  magnolias  and  roses  that  grew  in  profusion,  nor 
the  once  trim  boxwood  hedges  and  once  active  fountain.  He  sounded 
loudly  upon  the  front  door  with  the  knocker. 

At  length  a  woman  came  around  the  wing  room  and  approached  him. 
She  was  middle-aged  and  wore  a  colored  turban,  a  white  apron  hiding 
her  dress.  The  face  was  that  of  an  octoroon;  her  figure  tall  and  full 
of  dignity-  She  did  not  betray  the  mixed  blood  in  speech  or  manner, 
but  her  form  of  address  proclaimed  her  at  once  a  servant.  The  voice 
was  low  and  musical  as  she  said,  "Good-morning,  sir,"  and  waited. 

Morgan  studied  her  in  silence  a  moment;  his  steady  glance  seemed 
to  alarm  her,  for  she  drew  back  a  step  and  placed  her  hand  on  the  rail. 

"I  want  to  see  the  people  who  have  charge  of  this  house,"  said  the 
young  man.  She  now  approached  nearer  and  looked  anxiously  into 
his  face. 

"I  have  the  care  of  it,"  she  answered. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  am  Edward  Morgan,  the  new  owner.  Let  me 
have  the  keys." 

"Edward  Morgan!"    She  repeated  the  name  unconciously. 

"Come,  my  good  woman,  what  is  it?     Where  are  the  keys?"     She 


THE   MOTHER'S   ROOM  23 

bowed  her  head.  "I  will  get  them  for  you,  sir."  She  went  to  the 
rear  again,  and  presently  the  great  doors  swung  apart  and  he  entered. 

The  hallway  was  wide  and  opened  through  massive  folding  doors 
into  the  dining-room  in  the  rear,  and  this  dining-room,  by  means  of 
other  folding  doors,  entering  the  wing-rooms,  could  be  enlarged  into 
a  princely  salon.  The  hall  floor  was  of  marble  and  a  heavy  frieze  and 
centerpiece  decorated  walls  and  ceiling.  A  gilt  chandelier  hung  from 
the  center.  Antique  oak  chairs  flanked  this  hallway,  which  boasted 
also  a  hatrack,  with  looking-glass  six  feet  wide.  A  semicircular  stair 
way,  guarded  by  a  carved  oak  rail,  a  newel  post  and  a  knight  in  armor, 
led  to  apartments  above.  A  musty  odor  pervaded  the  place. 

"Open  the  house,"  said  Edward;  "I  must  have  better  air." 

And  while  this  was  being  done  he  passed  through  the  rooms  into 
which  now  streamed  light  and  fresh  air.  On  the  right  was  parlor  and 
guest  chamber,  the  hangings  and  carpets  unchanged  in  nearly  half  a 
century.  On  the  left  was  a  more  cheerful  living-room,  with  piano  and 
a  rack  of  yellow  sheet  music,  and  the  library,  with  an  enormous  collec 
tion  of  books.  There  were  also  cane  furniture,  floor  matting  and  easy- 
chairs. 

In  all  these  rooms  spacious  effects  were  not  lessened  by  bric-a-brac 
and  collections.  A  few  protraits  and  landscapes,  a  candelabra  or  two, 
a  pair  of  brass  fire  dogs,  one  or  two  large  and  exquisitely  painted  vases 
made  up  the  ornamental  features.  The  dining-room  proper  differed  in 
that  its  furnishings  were  newer  and  more  elaborate.  The  wing-rooms 
were  evidently  intended  for  cards  and  billiards.  Behind  was  the  south 
ern  back  porch  closed  in  with  large  green  blinds.  Over  all  was  the  chill 
of  isolation  and  disuse. 

Edward  made  his  way  upstairs  among  the  sleeping  apartments,  full 
of  old  and  clumsy  furniture,  the  bedding  having  been  removed.  Two 
rooms  only  were  of  interest;  to  the  right  and  rear  a  small  apartment 
connected  with  the  larger  one  in  front  by  a  door  then  locked.  This 
small  room  seemed  to  have  been  a  boy's.  There  were  bows  and  arrows, 
an  old  muzzle-loading  gun,  a  boat  paddle,  a  dip  net,  stag  horns,  some 
stuffed  birds  and  small  animals,  the  latter  sadly  dilapidated,  a  few 
game  pictures,  boots,  shoes  and  spurs — even  toys.  A  small  bed  ready 
for  occupancy  stood  in  one  corner  and  in  another  a  little  desk  with  drop 
lid.  On  the  hearth  were  iron  fire  dogs  and  ashes,  the  latter  holding 
fragments  of  charred  paper. 

For  the  first  time  since  entering  the  house  Edward  felt  a  human 
presence;  it  was  a  bright  sunny  room  opening  to  the  western  breeze 


24  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  the  berries  of  a  friendly  china  tree  tapped  upon  the  window  as  he 
approached  it.  He  placed  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  door,  leading 
forward,  and  tried  to  open  it;  it  was  locked. 

"That,"  said  the  woman's  low  voice,  "is  Col.  Morgan's  mother's  room, 
sir,  and  nobody  ever  goes  in  there.  No  one  has  entered  that  room  but 
him  since  she  died,  I  reckon  more  than  forty  years  ago." 

Edward  had  started  violently ;  he  turned  to  find  the  sad,  changeless 
face  of  the  octoroon  at  his  side. 

"And  this  room?" 

"There  is  where  he  lived  all  his  life — from  the  time  he  was  a  boy 
until  he  died." 

Edward  took  from  his  pocket  the  bunch  of  keys  and  applied  the 
largest  to  the  'o^k  of  the  unopened  door;  the  bolt  turned  easily.  As  he 
crossed  the  threshold  a  thrill  went  through  him;  he  seemed  to  tres 
pass-  Here  had  the  boy  grown  up  by  his  mother,  here  had  been  his 
reireat  at  all  li-.ries  When  she  passed  away  it  was  the  one  spot  that 
kept  fresh  the  heart  of  the  great  criminal  lawyer,  who  fought  the 
outside  world  so  fiercely  and  well.  Edward  had  never  known  a  mother's 
room,  but  the  scene  appealed  to  him,  and  for  the  first  time  he  felt 
kinship  with  the  man  who  preceded  him,  who  was  never  anything  but 
a  boy  here  in  these  two  rooms.  Even  when  he  lay  dead,  back  there 
in  that  simple  bed,  over  which  many  a  night  his  mother  moist  have 
leaned  to  press  her  kisses  upon  his  brow,  he  was  a  boy  grown  old  and 
lonely. 

One  day  she  had  died  in  this  front  room !  What  an  agony  of  grief 
must  have  torn  the  boy  left  behind.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  room  he 
had  opened,  objects  began  to  appear;  almost  reverently  Edward  raised 
a  window  and  pushed  open  the  shutters.  Behind  him  stood  ready  for 
occupancy  a  snowy  bed,  with  pillows  and  linen  as  fresh  seemingly  as 
if  placed  there  at  morn.  By  the  bedside  was  a  pair  of  small  worn 
slippers,  a  rocking  chair  stood  by  the  east  window,  and  by  the  chair 
was  a  little  sewing  stand,  with  a  boy's  jacket  lying  near,  and  threaded 
needle  thrust  into  its  texture.  On  the  little  center  table  was  a  well- 
worn  Bible  by  a  small  brass  lamp,  and  a  single  painting  hung  upon 
the  wall — that  of  a  little  farmhouse  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  with  a  girl 
in  frock  and  poke  bonnet  swinging  upon  its  gate. 

There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor;  only  two  small  rugs.  It  had  been 
the  home  of  a  girl  simply  raised  and  grown  to  womanhood,  and  her 
simplicity  had  been  repeated  in  her  boy.  The  great  house  had  been 
the  design  of  her  husband,  but  there  in  these  two  rooms  mother  and 


THE   MOTHER'S   ROOM  25 

son  found  the  charm  of  a  bygone  life,  delighting  in  those  "vague  feel 
ings"  which  science  cannot  fathom,  but  which  simpler  minds  accept 
as  the  whispering  of  heredity. 

One  article  only  remained  unexamined.  It  was  a  small  picture  in 
a  frame  that  rested  upon  the  mantel  and  in  front  of  which  was  draped 
a  velvet  cloth.  Morgan  as  in  a  dream  drew  aside  the  screen  and  saw 
the  face  of  a  wondrously  beautiful  girl,  whose  eyes  rested  pensively 
upon  him.  A  low  cry  escaped  the  octoroon,  who  had  noiselessly  fol 
lowed  him;  she  was  nodding  her  head  and  muttering,  all  unconscious 
of  his  presence.  When  she  saw  at  length  his  face  turned  in  wonder 
upon  her  she  glided  noiselessly  from  the  room.  He  replaced  the  cloth, 
closed  the  window  again  and  tiptoed  out,  locking  the  door  behind  him. 

He  found  the  octoroon  downstairs  upon  the  back  steps.  She  was 
now  calm  and  answered  his  questions  clearly.  She  had  not  belonged 
to  John  Morgan,  she  said,  but  had  always  been  a  free  woman.  Her 
husband  had  been  free,  too,  but  had  died  early.  She  had  come  to  keep 
house  at  Ilexhurst  many  years  ago,  before  the  war,  and  had  been  there 
alwas  since,  caring  for  everything  while  Mr.  Morgan  was  in  the  army, 
and  afterward,  when  he  was  away  from  time  to  time.  No,  she  did  not 
know  anything  of  the  girl  in  the  picture;  she  had  heard  it  said  that 
he  was  once  to  have  married  a  lady,  but  she  married  somebody  else  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  John  Morgan  had  kept  the  room  as  it  was.  No, 
he  was  never  married.  He  had  no  cousins  or  kinfolks  that  she  had 
heard  of  except  a  sister  who  died,  and  her  two  sons  had  been  killed 
in  battle  or  lost  at  sea  during  the  war.  Neither  of  them  was  married; 
she  was  certain  of  that.  She  herself  cooked  and  kept  house,  and  Ben, 
a  hired  boy,  attended  to  the  rest  and  acted  as  butler. 

Edward  was  recalled  to  the  present  by  feeling  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
him.  He  caught  but  one  fleeting  glance  at  her  face  before  it  was 
averted;  it  had  grown  young,  almost  beautiful,  and  the  eyes  were 
moistened  and  tender  and  sad.  He  turned  away  abruptly. 

''I  will  occupy  an  upper  roomi  to-night,"  he  said,  "  and  will  send 
new  furniture  to-morrow."  His  baggage  had  come  and  he  went  back 
with  the  express  to  the  city.  He  would  return,  he  said,  after  supper. 

Sometimes  the  mind,  after  a  long  strain  imposed  upon  it,  relieves 
Itself  by  a  refusal  to  consider.  So  with  Edward  Morgan's.  That 
night  he  stood  by  his  window  and  watched  the  lessening  moon  rise  over 
the  eastern  hills.  But  he  seemed  to  stand  by  a  low  picket  fence  beyond 
which  a  girl,  with  bare  arms,  was  feeding  poultry.  He  felt  again  the 
power  of  her  frank,  brown  eyes  as  they  rested  upon  him,  and  heard  her 


26  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

voice,  musical  in  the  morning  air,  as  it  summoned  her  flock  to  break 
fast. 

In  New  York,  Paris  and  Italy,  and  here  there  in  other  lands,  were 
a  few  who  called  him  friend ;  it  would  be  better  to  wind  up  his  affairs 
and  go  to  them.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  he  could  endure  this 
new  life.  Already  the  buoyancy  of  youth  was  gone !  His  ties  were  all 
abroad. 

Thoughts  of  Paris  connected  him  with  a  favorite  air.  He  went  to 
his  baggage  and  unpacked  an  old  violin,  and  sitting  in  the  window,  he 
played  as  a  master  hand  had  taught  him  and  an  innate  genius  impelled. 
It  was  Schubert's  serenade,  and  as  he  played  the  room  was  no  longer 
lonely;  sympathy  had  brought  him  friends.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
among  them  came  a  woman  who  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
smiled  on  him.  Her  face  was  hidden,  but  her  touch  was  there,  living 
and  vibrant.  On  his  cheek  above  the  mellow  instrument  he  felt  his 
own  tears  begin  to  creep  and  then — silence.  But  as  he  stood  calmer, 
looking  down  into  the  night,  a  movement  in  the  shrubbery  attracted 
him  back  to  earth ;  he  called  aloud : 

"Who  is  there?"  A  pause  and  the  tall  figure  of  the  octoroon  crossed 
the  white  walk. 

"Rita,"  was  the  answer.    "The  gate  was  left  open." 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

Edward  was  up  early  and  abroad  for  exercise.  Despite  his  gloom 
he  had  slept  fairly  well  and  had  awakened  but  once.  But  that  once! 
He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  memory  of  the  little  picture  and  it 
had  served  him  a  queer  trick.  He  had  simply  found  himself  lying 
with  open  eyes  and  staring  at  the  woman  herself;  it  was  the  same 
face,  but  now  anxious  and  harassed.  He  was  not  superstitious  and 
this  was  clearly  an  illusion ;  he  rubbed  his  eyes  deliberately  and  looked 
again.  The  figure  had  disappeared.  But  the  mind  that  entertains 
such  fancies  needs  something — ozone  and  exercise,  he  thought;  and  so 
he  covered  the  hills  with  his  rapid  pace  and  found  himself  an  hour  later 
in  the  city  and  with  an  appetite. 


THE  STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY  27 

The  day  passed  in  the  arrangement  of  those  minor  requirements 
when  large  estates  descend  to  new  owners.  There  was  an  accounting, 
an  examination  of  records.  Judge  Eldridge  gave  him  assistance 
everywhere,  but  there  was  no  time  for  private  and  past  histories.  In 
passing  he  dropped  in  at  Barksdale's  office  and  left  a  card. 

One  of  the  distinctly  marked  features  of  the  day  was  his  meeting 
with  a  lawyer,  Amos  Royson  by  name.  This  man  held  a  druggist's 
claim  of  several  hundred  dollars  against  the  estate  of  John  Morgan 
for  articles  purchased  by  Rita  Morgan,  the  charges  made  upon  verbal 
authority  from  the  deceased.  John  Morgan  had  been  absent  many 
months  just  previous  to  his  death  and  the  account  had  not  been 
presented. 

Edward  was  surprised  to  find,  upon  entering  this  office,  that  the 
lawyer  was  the  man  who  had  collided  with  Montjoy's  horse  the  night 
before.  Royson  saluted  him  coldly  but  politely  and  produced  the  ac 
count  already  sworn  to  and  ready  for  filing.  It  had  been  withheld  at 
Eldridge's  request.  As  Edward  ran  his  eye  over  the  list  he  saw  that 
chemicals  had  been  bought  at  wholesale,  and  with  them  had  been  sent 
one  or  two  expensive  articles  belonging  to  a  chemical  laboratory. 
Just  what  use  Rita  Morgan  might  have  for  such  things  he  could  not 
imagine.  He  was  about  to  say  that  he  would  inquire  into  the  account 
when  he  saw  that  Royson,  with  a  sardonic  smile  upon  his  face,  was 
watching  him.  He  had  a  distinct  impression  that  antipathy  to  the  man 
was  stirring  within  him;  he  was  about  to  pay  the  account  and  rid 
himself  of  the  necessity  of  any  further  dealings  with  the  man,  when, 
angered  by  the  impudent,  irritating  manner,  he  decided  otherwise. 

"Have  you  ever  shown  this  account  to  Rita  Morgan?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"And  she  pronounced  it  correct,  I  suppose?" 

"She  did  not  examine  it;  she  said  that  you  would  pay  it  now  that 
John  Morgan  is  dead." 

"If  the  account  is  a  just  charge  upon  the  Morgan  estate  I  certainly 
will,"  said  Morgan,  pocketing  the  written  statement. 

"I  think  after  you  examine  into  the  matter  it  will  be  paid,"  said 
Royson,  confidently.  Edward  thought  long  upon  the  man's  manner 
and  the  circumstance,  but  could  make  nothing  out  of  them.  He  would 
see  Rita,  and  with  that  resolution  he  let  the  incident  pass  from  his 
mind. 

The  shadows  were  falling  when  he  returned  to  take  his  first  meal 
in  his  new  home.  He  descended  to  the  dining-room  to  find  it  lighted 


28  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

by  the  fifty  or  more  jets  in  the  large  gilt  chandeliers.  The  apartment 
literally  blazed  with  light.  The  sensation  under  the  circumstances 
was  agreeable,  and  in  better  spirits  he  took  the  single  seat  provided. 
Here,  as  afterward  ascertained,  had  been  the  lawyer's  one  point  of 
contact  with  the  social  world,  and  it  was  here  that  he  had  been  accus 
tomed,  at  intervals  varying  from  weeks  to  years,  to  entertain  his  city 
acquaintainces. 

The  room  was  not  American  but  continental  from  its  Louvre  ceiling 
of  white  and  gold  to  its  niched  half  life-size  statuary  and  pictures  of 
fishing  and  hunting  scenes  in  gilded  frames.  But  the  foreign  effects 
ended  in  this  room.  Outside  all  else  was  American. 

Edward  was  silently  served  by  the  butler  and  was  pleased  to  find 
his  dinner  first  class  in  every  respect.  Then  came  a  box  of  choice 
cigars  upon  a  silver  tray. 

Passing  into  the  library,  he  seated  himself  by  the  reading  light  near 
the  little  side  table  where  a  leather  chair  had  been  placed,  and  sought 
diversion  in  the  papers;  but,  alas,  the  European  finds  but  little  of 
home  affairs  in  one  parliament,  a  regatta,  a  horse  race,  a  German-army 
review,  a  social  sensation — these  were  all. 

He  turned  from  the  papers;  the  truth  is  the  one  great  overwhelm 
ing  fact  at  that  moment  was  that  he,  a  wanderer  all  of  his  life,  with 
out  family  or  parents,  or  knowledge  of  them,  had  suddenly  been  trans 
planted  among  a  strange  people  and  made  the  master  of  a  household 
and  a  vast  fortune.  On  this  occasion,  as  ever  since  entering  the  house, 
he  could  not  rid  himself  of  a  suggestion  so  indefinite  as  to  belong  to  the 
region  of  subconsciousness  that  he  was  an  interloper,  an  inferior,  and 
that  jealous,  unseen  eyes  were  watching  him.  The  room  seemed  haunt 
ed  by  an  unutterable  protest.  He  was  not  aware  then  that  this  is  a 
peculiarity  of  all  old  houses. 

Something  like  an  oppression  seized  upon  him  and  he  was  wondering 
if  this  should  continue,  would  it  be  possible  for  him  to  endure  the 
situation  long?  Upstairs  was  the  little  desk,  the  keys  to  which  he  held, 
and  in  it  information  that  would  lay  bare  the  secret  of  his  life  and 
reveal  the  mystery  of  years  ago;  which  would  give  him  the  same 
chance  for  happiness  that  other  men  have.  All  that  was  left  now  for 
him  to  do  was  to  ascend  the  stairs,  open  the  desk  and  read.  He  had 
put  it  off  for  a  quiet  and  convenient  moment,  and  that  time  had  come. 

But  what  was  contained  in  that  desk?  He  remembered  Hamlet  and 
understood  his  doubts  for  the  first  time.  It  was  the  gravity  of  this 
doubt,  the  weight  of  the  revelation  to  come  that  caused  him  to  smoke 


THE  STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY  29 

on,  cigar  after  cigar,  in  silence.  It  flashed  upon  him  that  it  might  be 
wiser  to  take  his  fortune  and  return  to  Europe  as  he  was.  But  as  he 
smoked  his  mind  rejected  the  suggestion  as  cowardly. 

It  was  at  this  stage  in  his  reverie  that  Edward  Morgan  received  the 
severest  shock  of  his  life.  Without  having  noticed  any  sound  or  move 
ment,  he  presently  became  conscious  that  some  one  besides  himself  was 
in  the  room,  and  instantly,  almost,  his  eyes  rested  on  a  man  standing 
before  the  open  bookcase.  It  was  a  figure,  slender  and  tall,  clad  in 
light,  well-worn  trousers,  and  short  smoking  jacket.  The  face  turned 
from  him>  was  lifted  toward  the  shelves,  and  long  black  hair  fell  in 
shining  masses  upon  his  shoulders.  The  right  hand  exended  upward, 
touching  first  one,  then  another  of  the  volumes  as  it  searched  along  the 
line,  was  white  as  paraffine  and  slender  as  a  girl's  and  a  fold  of  linen, 
edged  with  lace,  lay  upon  the  wrists.  All  the  other  details  of  the  figure 
were  lost  in  the  shadow.  While  thus  Edward  sat,  his  brain  whirling 
and  eyes  riveted  upon  the  strange  figure,  the  visitor  paused  in  his 
search  as  if  in  doubt,  turned  his  profile  and  listened,  then  faced  about 
suddenly  and  the  two  men  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 

Edward  had  gained  his  first  full  view  of  the  visitor's  face.  Had 
it  been  withdrawn  from  him  in  an  instant  he  could  at  any  time  there 
after  have  reproduced  it  in  every  line,  so  vividly  was  it  impressed 
upon  his  memory.  It  was  new,  and  yet  strangely,  dimly,  vaguely 
familiar!  It  was  oval,  pale  and  lighted  by  eyes  with  enormously  dis 
tended  pupils.  It  seemed  to  himi  that  they  were  not  mirrors  at  that 
moment,  but  scintillating  lights  burning  within  their  cavities. 

But  the  first  effect,  startling  though  it  was,  passed  away  immedi 
ately;  nothing  could  have  withstood  the  gentle  pleading  entreaty  that 
lurked  in  all  the  face  lines;  an  expression  childish  and  girlish.  The 
stranger  gazed  for  a  moment  only  on  the  man  sitting  bolt  upright  now 
in  his  chair,  his  hands  clutching  the  arms,  and  then  went  quickly 
forward. 

"You  are  Edward  Morgan?"  he  said,  encouragingly.  "My  uncle 
told  me  you  would  come  some  day."  The  deep,  indrawn  breath  that 
had  made  the  new  master's  figure  rigid  for  the  moment  escaped  back 
slowly  between  the  parted  lips.  He  was  ashamed  that  he  should 
have  been  so  startled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  am  Edward  Morgan.    And  you  are " 

"Gerald  Morgan.  But  I  must  say  good-bye  now.  I  have  a  matter 
of  upmost  importance  to  conclude."  He  smiled  again,  returned  to  the 


30  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

shelves  and  this  time  without  hesitation  selected  a  volume  and  passed 
out  toward  the  dining-room. 

A  faint  odor  of  burning  material  attracted  Edward's  attention. 
He  looked  for  his  cigar;  it  lay  upon  the  matting,  in  a  circle  as  large 
as  his  hat.  He  must  have  sat  there  watching  the  door  for  fifteen  min 
utes  after  the  singular  visitor  had  passed  through.  He  stamped  out 
the  creeping  circle  of  fire  and  rang  the  bell.  The  octoroon  entered 
and  stood  waiting,  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"A  young  man  came  here  a  few  minutes  since  and  went  out  throngh 
that  door,"  said  he,  with  difficulty  suppressing  his  excitement:  "whn 
is  he?" 

She  looked  to  him  astonished. 

"Why,  that  was  Mr.  Gerald,  sir.  Don't  you  know  of  him?  Mr. 
Gerald  Morgan?" 

"Absolutely  nothing.  I  have  never  seen  him  before  nor  heard  of 
him — no  mention  of  him  has  been  made  in  my  presence."  The  woman 
was  clearly  amazed. 

"Is  it  possible !  Your  uncle  never  wrote  you  about  Gerald  Morgan — 
the  lawyers  have  never  told  you?" 

"No  one  has  told  me,  I  say;  the  man  is  as  new  to  me  as  if  he  had 
dropped  from  the  clouds." 

She  thought  a  moment.    "He  must  have  left  papers " 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Edward,  starting  suddenly;  "I  have  not  read  the 
papers!  I  see!  I  see!" 

"You  will  find  it  there,"  she  said,  relieved.  "I  thought  you  knew 
already.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  tell  you  about  him,  sir !  We  have 
grown  used  to  not  speaking  of  himi.  He  never  goes  out  anywhere  now." 
Edward  was  puzzled  and  then  an  explanation  flashed  upon  him. 

"He  is  insane!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  no,  sir!  But  he  has  always  been  delicate — not  like  other 
children;  and  then  the  medicine  they  gave  him  when  he  had  the  pains 
and  was  a  baby — he  has  been  obliged  to  keep  it  up.  It  is  the  morphine 
and  opium,  sir,  that  has  changed  him."  Edward  nodded  his  head;  the 
explanation  was  sufficient. 

"He  has  lived  here  a  long  time,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  smokes  and  reads  and  paints  and  does  many  curious 
things,  but  he  never  goes  out.  Sometimes  he  walks  about  the  place, 
but  generally  at  night;  and  once  or  twice  in  the  last  ten  years  he  has 
gone  down-town,  but  it  excites  him  too  much  and  he  is  apt  to  die  away." 

"Die  away?" 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE'?"  31 

"Yes,  sir;  the  attacks  come  on  him  at  any  time,  and  so  we  let  him 
live  on  as  he  wants  to  and  no  one  sees  him.  He  cannot  bear  strangers, 
but  he  is  not  insane,  sir.  One  trouble  is,  he  knows  more  than  his  head 
can  hold — he  studies  too  much."  She  said  this  very  tenderly  and  her 
voice  trembled  a  little  as  she  finished  and  turned  her  face  to  work 
nervously. 

"You  have  not  told  me  who  he  is." 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  and  then  she  added:  "He  was  a  baby  when  I 
came,  and  I  have  done  my  best  by  him."  She  did  not  meet  his  eyes.  Her 
suffering  and  embarrassment  touched  Edward. 

"I  will  read  the  papers,"  he  said,  gently;  "they  will  tell  me  all." 
Taking  this  as  a  dismissal  the  woman  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE'  FOR  THE 
IMMORTAL  MIND?" 

Something  like  fear,  a  superstitious  fear,  arose  in  Edwards'  heart 
as  he  turned  down  the  lid  of  the  old-fashioned  desk  in  the  little  room 
upstairs  and  saw  the  few  papers  pigeon-holed  there  with  lawyer-like 
precision.  On  the  top  lay  a  long  envelope  sealed  and  bearing  his  name. 
His  hand  shook  as  he  held  it  and  studied  the  chirography-  The  mo 
ment  was  one  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  for  a  lifetime  and  should 
contain  the  explanation  of  the  singular  mystery  that  had  environed 
him  from  infancy. 

As  he  held  the  letter,  hesitating  over  the  final  act,  his  life  passed  in 
review  as,  it  is  said,  do  the  lives  of  drowning  persons.  The  thought 
that  Edward  Morgan  was  dying  came  in  that  connection.  The  orphan, 
the  lonely  college  boy,  the  wandering  youth,  the  bohemian  of  a  dozen 
continental  capitals,  the  musician  and  half-way  metaphysicist  and 
theosophist,  the  unformed  man  of  an  unformed  age,  new  sphere,  one 
of  quick,  earnest,  feverish  action,  the  new  man,  was  to  spring  armed, 
or  hampered  by — what?  At  that  moment,  by  a  strange  revulsion,  the 
life  that  he  had  worn  so  hardly,  so  bitterly,  even  its  sadness  seemed 
dear  and  beautiful.  After  all  it  had  been  a  life  of  ease  and  many 


32  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

scenes.     It  had  no  responsibilities — now  it  would  pass!    He  tore  open 
the  envelope  impatiently  and  read: 

"Edward  Morgan — Sir:  When  this  letter  comes  to  your  knowledge 
you  will  have  been  acquainted  with  the  fact  that  my  will  has  made 
you  heir  to  all  my  property,  without  legacy  or  restriction.  That  docu 
ment  was  made  brief  and  simple,  partly  to  avoid  complications,  and 
partly  to  conceal  facts  with  which  the  public  has  no  reasonable  interest. 
I  now,  assured  of  your  character  in  every  particular,  desire  that  you 
retain  during  the  lifetime  of  Gerald  Morgan  the  residence  which  has 
always  been  his  home,  providing  for  his  wants  and  pleasures  freely 
as  I  have  done  and  leaving  him  undisturbed  in  the  manner  of  his  life, 
I  direct,  further,  that  you  extend  the  same  care  and  kindness  to  Rita 
Morgan,  my  housekeeper,  seeing  that  she  is  not  disturbed  in  her  home 
and  the  manner  of  her  life.  My  object  is  to  guard  the  welfare  of  the 
only  people  intimately  connected  with  me  by  ties  of  friendship  and 
association,  whom  I  have  not  already  provided  for.  Carrying  out  this 
intention,  you  will  as  soon  as  possible,  after  coming  into  possession, 
take  precautions  looking  to  the  future  of  Gerald  Morgan  and  Rita 
Morgan,  my  housekeeper,  in  the  event  of  your  own  death;  and  the 
plan  to  be  selected  in  this  connection  I  leave  to  your  own  good  sense  and 
judgment,  only  suggesting  as  adviser  for  you  Ellison  Eldridge,  one 
of  the  few  lawyers  living  whose  heart  is  outside  of  his  pocketbook, 
and  whose  discretion  is  perfect. 

"John  Morgan." 
That  was  all. 

The  young  man,  dumfounded,  turned  over  the  single  sheet  of  paper 
that  contained  the  whole  message,  examined  again  the  envelope,  read 
and  reread  the  communication,  and  finally  laid  it  aside.  Not  one  word 
of  explanation  of  his  own  (Edward's)  existence  no  claim  of  relation 
ship,  no  message  of  sympathy,  only  the  curt  voice  of  an  eccentric  old 
man,  echoing  beyond  the  black  wall  of  mystery  and  already  sunk  into 
eternal  silence.  The  old  life  no  longer  seemed  dear  or  beautiful.  It 
returned  upon  him  with  the  dull  weight  of  oppression  he  had  known 
so  long.  It  was  a  bitter  ending,  a  crushing,  overwhelming  disappoint 
ment. 

He  smiled  at  length  and  lighted  another  cigar.  His  mind  reverted 
to  the  singular  character  whose  final  expression  lay  upon  the  desk. 
His  last  act  had  been  to  guard  against  the  curious,  and  that  had  in 
cluded  the  beneficiary.  He  had  succeeded  in  living  a  mystery,  in  dying 
a  mystery,  and  in  covering  up  his  past  with  a  mystery. 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE?'"  33 

"It  was  well  done."  Such  was  Edward's  reflection  spoken  aloud. 
He  recalled  the  lines:  "I  now,  assured  of  your  character  in  every 
particular."  Every  word  in  that  laconic  lpH*»r.  as  also  every  word 
in  the  few  communications  made  to  him  in  life  by  this  man,  meant 
something.  What  did  these  mean?  "Assured"  by  whom?  Who  had 
spied  upon  his  actions  and  kept  watch  over  him  to  such  an  extent  as 
would  justify  the  sweeping  confidences?  But  he  knew  that  the  testa 
tor  had  read  him  right.  A  faint  wave  of  pleasure  flushed  his  cheek 
and  warmed  his  heart  when  he  realized  the  full  significance  of  this 
tribute  to  his  true  character.  He  no  longer  felt  like  an  intruder. 

And  yet,  "assured"  by  whom?  And  who  was  Gerald  Morgan?  Not 
a  relative  or  he  would  have  said  so;  he  would  have  said  "my  nephew, 
Gerald  Morgan."  The  same  argument  shut  him  (Edward)  out.  Why 
this  suspicious  absence  of  relationship  terms? — and  they,  both  of  them, 
Morgans  and  heirs  to  his  wealth? 

Again  he  dragged  the  papers  from  the  desk  and  ran  them  over. 
Manuscripts  all,  they  contained  detached  accounts  of  widely  separated 
people  and  incidents,  and  moreover  they  were  clearly  briefed.  "A 
Dramatic  Trail,"  "The  Storm,"  "A  Midnight  Struggle,"  etc.  They 
had  no  bearing  upon  his  life;  they  were  the  unpublished  literary  re 
mains  of  John  Morgan. 

Every  paper  lay  exposed;  the  mine  was  exhausted.  He  again  read 
the  letter  slowly,  idly  lifted  each  paper  and  returned  all  to  the  desk. 

The  cigar  was  out  again;  he  tossed  it  from  the  window,  locked  the 
desk  and  passed  into  the  mother's  room.  The  action  was  without  fore 
thought,  but  his  new  philosophy  had  taught  him  the  value  of  instinc 
tive  human  actions  as  index  fingers.  What  cause  then  had  drawn  him 
into  that  long-deserted  room?  As  he  reflected,  his  eyes  rested  upon 
the  picture  of  the  girl  in  the  little  frame  on  the  mantel.  He  started 
back,  amazed  and  overwhelmed.  It  was  the  face  that  had  been  turned 
to  him  in  the  library — the  face  of  Gerald  Morgan ! 

Edward  was  surprised  to  find  himself  standing  by  the  open  window 
when  he  had  exhausted  the  train  of  thought  that  the  recognition  put 
in  motion,  and  counting  his  heart-beats,  ninety  to  the  minute.  By 
that  curious  power  or  weakness  of  certain  minds  his  thoughts  ran 
entirely  from  the  matter  in  hand  along  the  lines  of  a  looture  his  friend 
Virdow  as  Jean  had  delivered,  the  theory  of  which  was  thati  organic 
heart  desease,  unless  fastened  to  its  victim  by  inheritance,  is  always 
a  mental  result.  If  a  mere  thought  or  combination  of  thoughts  could 


34  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

excite,  a  thought  could  depress.  It  was  plain;  he  would  write  to 
Virdow  confirming  his  theory. 

Then  he  became  conscious  that  the  moon  hung  like  a  plate  of  silver 
in  the  vast  sky  space  of  the  east  and  that  her  light  was  flashed  back 
by  many  little  points  in  the  city  beneath  him — a  gilt  ball,  a  vane,  a  set 
of  window  glasses,  and  the  dew-wet  slates  of  a  modern  roof.  One 
white  spot  waa  visible  in  the  yard  in  front,  white  and  pale  as  the 
moon  when  the  vapor  had  dispersed  but  set  immovably.  As  he  idly 
sought  to  unravel  its  little  secret,  it  simply  became  a  part  of  the 
shadow  and  invisible,  but  he  felt  that  some  one  was  looking  up  at  him ; 
and  suddenly  he  saw  the  slender  figure  of  a  man  pass,  cross  the  gravel 
walk  and  vanish  in  the  shrubbery  on  the  left. 

Edward  did  not  cry  out;  he  stood  musing  upon  the  fact,  and  lo, 
there  came  a  glitter  of  rosy  light  along  the  horizon;  the  moon  had 
vanished  overhead,  and  sound  arose  in  confused  murmurs  from  the 
dull  heaps  of  houses  in  the  valley.  He  saw  again  at  the  moment, 
over  the  eastern  hills,  the  face  of  a  girl  as  she  stood  calling  her  pets, 
and  felt  her  eyes  upon  him. 

When  he  awoke  that  day  he  found  the  sun  far  beyond  the  zenith 
and  he  lay  revolving  in  his  mind  the  events  of  the  night;  to  his  surprise 
much  of  the  weight  was  gone  and  in  its  place  was  interest,  the  like 
of  which  he  had  never  before  known.  An  object  in  life  had  suddenly 
been  developed  and  instinctively  he  felt  that  the  study  of  this  new 
mystery  would  lead  to  a  knowledge  of  himself  and  his  past. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  again  see  the  stranger  who  had 
invaded  his  library,  and  carry  his  investigation  as  far  as  this  person 
would  permit.  This  in  mind,  he  dressed  himself  with  care  and  de 
scended  into  the  dining-room.  In  a  few  moments  his  breakfast  was 
served.  Upon  hearing  his  inquiry  for  Rita,  Ben,  the  butler,  retired 
and  presently  the  woman,  grave,  and  after  a  few  words  quiet,  took 
his  place.  Before  speaking  Edward  noticed  her  closely  again.  About 
fifty  years  of  age,  perhaps  less,  she  stood  as  erect  and  rigid  as  an 
Indian,  her  black  hair  without  a  kink.  There  was  an  easy  dignity 
in  her  attitude,  hardly  the  pose  of  a  slave,  or  one  who  had  been.  But 
in  her  face  was  the  sadness  of  personal  suffering,  and  in  her  voice 
a  tone  he  had  noticed  at  first,  an  echo  of  some  depressing  experience, 
it  seemed  to  him. 

Where  was  Gerald's  room?  There!  He  had  not  noticed  the  door; 
it  led  out  from  the  dining-room.  It  was  the  wing  intended  for  bil 
liards,  but  now  the  retreat  of  her  poor  young  master  and  had  been 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE?'"  35 

all  his  life.  He  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed,  but  perhaps  the  circum 
stances  would  make  a  difference. 

Edward  knocked  on  the  door.  Receiving  no  answer,  he  opened  it 
hesitatingly  and  looked  in.  Then  he  entered.  Gerald  greeted  him 
with  an  encouraging  smile  and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  he  viewed 
the  interior  with  interest.  The  walls  were  hung  with  pictures, 
swords,  guns,  pistols  and  other  weapons,  and  between  them  on  every 
available  spot  were  books,  books,  books  and  periodicals.  A  broad 
center  table  held  writing  materials  and  manuscripts,  and  upon  a 
long  table  by  two  open  windows  were  bottles  of  many  colors  and  all 
the  queer  paraphernalia  of  a  chemical  laboratory.  Against  the  op 
posite  wall  was  a  spacious  divan,  and  seated  upon  it,  wrapped  in  a 
singular-looking  dressing-gown,  fez  upon  his  head  and  smoking  a 
shibouk  as  he  read,  was  the  strange  being  for  whom  Edward  searched. 

"I  was  expecting  you,"  the  young  man  said;  "where  have  you  been?" 
The  naturalness  of  the  words  confused  the  visitor  for  a  mioment.  No 
seat  had  been  offered  him,  but  he  drew  one  near  the  divan. 

"I  suppose  I  may  smoke?"  he  said,  smiling,  ignoring  the  query, 
but  the  intent  look  of  Gerald  caused  him  to  add:  "I  slept  late;  how 
did  you  rest?" 

"Do  you  know,''  said  Gerald,  his  expression  changing,  "strange 

as  it  may  seem,  I  have  seen  you  before,  but  where,  where "  The 

long  lashes  dropped  above  the  eyes;  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "but 
where,  no  man  may  say." 

"It  hardly  seems  possible,"  said  Edward,  gravely.  "I  have  never 
been  here  before,  and  you,  I  believe,  have  never  been  absent." 

"So  they  say;  so  they  say.  Mere  old-nurse  talk!  I  have  been  to 
many  places."  Edward  turned  his  head  in  sadness.  Man  or  woman 
the  person  was  crazy.  He  looked  again;  it  was  the  face  of  the  girl  in 
the  picture  frame,  grown  older,  with  time  and  suffering. 

"It  is  an  odd  room,"  he  said,  presently;  "do  you  sleep  here?'1 

Gerald  nodded  to  the  other  door. 

"Would  you  like  to  see?     Enter." 

To  Edward's  amazement  he  found  himself  in  a  conservatory,  a 
glass  house  about  forty  by  twenty  feet,  arranged  for  sliding  curtains 
at  sides  and  top.  There  was  little  to  be  seen  besides  a  small  bed  and 
necessary  furniture.  But  an  easel  stood  near  the  center  and  on  it 
a  canvas  ready  for  painting.  In  a  corner  was  a  large  portfolio  for 
drawings,  closed. 

"I  cannot  sleep  unless  I  see  the  stars,"  said  Gerald,  joining  him. 


36  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"And  there  is  an  entrance  to  the  grounds!"  He  threw  open  a  glass 
door,  exposing  an  oleander  avenue.  "This  is  my  favorite  walk."  The 
scene  seemed  to  strike  him  anew.  He  stood  there  lost  in  thought 
a  moment  and  returned  to  his  divan.  Edward  found  him  absorbed 
in  a  volume.  He  had  studied  him  there  long  and  keenly  and  reached 
a  conclusion  that  would,  he  felt,  be  of  value  in  his  future  associations 
with  this  eccentric  mind;  it  was  a  mind  reversed,  living  in  abstract 
thought.  Its  visions  of  real  life  were  only  glimpses.  Therefore,  he 
reasoned,  to  keep  company  with  such  a  mind,  one  must  be  prepared 
for  its  eccentricities  and  avoid  discord. 

It  was  a  keen  diagnosis  and  he  acted  upon  it.  He  went  about 
noiselessly  examining  the  furnishings  of  the  room  without  further 
speech.  The  young  man  was  writing  as  he  passed  him.  Looking 
over  his  shoulder,  Edward  read  a  few  lines  of  what  was  evidently 
a  thesis; 

"The  mind  can  therefore  have  no  conscious  memory.  Memory 
being  a  function  of  the  brain  and  physical  structure,  and  mind  being 
endowed  with  a  capacity  for  wandering,  it  follows  that  it  can  bring 
back  no  record  of  its  experience  since  no  memory  function  went  with 
it.  It  may,  indeed,  be  true  that  the  mind  can  itself  be  shaped  and 
biased  anew  by  its  detached  experiences,  but  who  can  ever  read  its 
history  backwards?  Unless  somewhere  arises  a  mind  brilliant  enough 
to  find  the  alphabet,  to  connect  the  mind's  hidden  storehouse  with 
consciousness,  the  mystery  of  andnd — life  (that  is,  higher  dream 
life) — must  remain  forever  unread.'1 

"It  has  been  found,"  said  Edward,  as  though  Gerald  had  stated 
a  proposition  aloud. 

"How?  Where?"  Gerald  did  not  look  up,  but  merely  ceased 
writing  a  moment. 

"Music  is  the  connecting  link.  Music  is  the  language  of  the  mind. 
Vibration  is  the  secret  of  creation  and  along  its  lines  will  all  secrets 
be  revealed."  The  book  closed  slowly  in  the  reader's  hands,  his 
thesis  slipped  to  the  floor.  He  sat  in  deep  thought.  Then  a  light 
gleamed  in  his  face  and  eyes. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  with  agitation,  as  he  arose.  "It  is  a  great 
thought;  a  great  discovery-  I  must  learn  once"  and  Rita  stood  wait 
ing.  "Bring  me  musical  instruments — what?"  He  turned  impatiently 
to  Edward.  The  latter  shook  his  head. 

'"Tis  a  lifetime  study,''  he  said,  sadly,  "and  then — failure.  No 
man  has  yet  reached  the  end." 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"        37 

"I  will  reach  it." 

"It  calls  for  labor  day  and  night — for  talent — for  teachers." 

"I  will  have  all." 

"It  calls  for  youth,  for  a  mind  young  and  fresh  and  responsive. 
You  are  old  in  mind.  It  is  too  late." 

"Too  late.  Too  late.  Never,  never,  never  too  late.  Who  says 
there  can  be  a  'too  late1  for  the  immortal  mind?  I  will  begin.  I  will 
labor!  I  will  succeed!  If  not  in  this  life,  then  in  the  next,  or  the 
next;  aye,  at  the  foot  of  Buddha,  if  need  be,  I  will  press  to  read  all 
to  the  strains  of  music.  Oh,  blind!  Blind!  Blind!"  He  strode 
about  the  room  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement. 

"Prove  to  me  it  is  too  late  here,"  shrieked  the  unhappy  being, 
"and  I  will  end  this  existence;  will  go  back  a  thousand  cycles,  if 
necessary,  carrying  with  me  the  impression  of  this*  truth,  and  begin, 
an  infant,  to  lisp  in  numbers." 

He  had  snatched  a  poniard  from  the  wall  and  was  gesticulating 
frantically.  Edward  was  about  to  speak  when  he  saw  the  enthusiast's 
eyes  lose  their  frenzy  and  fix  upon  the  woman's.  He  dropped  the 
weapon  and  plunged  face  downward  in  despair  among  the  pillows. 
Like  a  statue  the  woman  stood  gazing  upon  him. 

"My  violin,"  said  Edward.     She  disappeared  noiselessly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
"BACK!  WOULD   YOU  MURDER  HER?'1 

When  Edward  Morgan  went  to  Europe  from  Columbia  college  it 
was  in  obedience  to  a  mandate  of  John  Morgan  through  the  New 
York  lawyers.  He  went,  began  there  the  life  of  a  bohemian.  Intro 
duced  by  a  chance  acquaintance,  he  fell  in  first  with  the  art  circles 
of  Paris,  and,  having  a  fancy  and  decided  talent  for  painting,  he  be 
took  himself  seriously  to  study.  But  the  same  shadow,  the  same  need 
of  an  overpowering  motive,  pursued  him.  With  hope  and  ambition 
he  might  have  become  known  to  fame.  As  it  was,  his  mind  drifted 
into  subtleties  and  the  demon  change  came  again.  He  closed  his 
easel.  Rome,  Athens,  Constantinople,  the  Occident,  all  knew  him, 
gave  him  brief  welcome  and  quick  farewells. 


452587 


38  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

The  years  were  passing;  as  he  had  gone  from  idleness  to  art, 
from  art  to  history,  and  from  history  to  archaeology  by  easy  steps, 
so  he  passed  now,  successively  to  religion,  to  philosophy,  and  to  its 
last  broad  exponent,  theosophy. 

The  severity  of  this  last  creed  fitted  the  crucifixion  of  his  spirit. 
Its  contemplation  showed  him  vacancies  in  his  education  and  so  he 
went  to  Jena  for  additional  study.  This  decision  was  reached  mainly 
through  the  suggestion  of  a  chance  acquaintance  named  Abingdon, 
who  had  come  into  his  life  during  his  first  summer  on  the  continent. 
They  met  so  often  that  the  face  of  this  man  had  became  familiar, 
and  one  day,  glad  to  hear  his  native  tongue,  he  addressed  him  and 
was  not  repelled 

Abingdon  gave  to  Edward  Morgan  his  confidence;  it  was  not  im 
portant;  a  barrister  in  an  English  interior  town,  he  crossed  the  chan 
nel  annually  for  ramble  in  the  by-ways  of  Europe.  It  had  been 
his  unbroken  habit  for  many  years. 

From  this  time  the  two  men  met  often  and  journeyed  much  together, 
the  elder  seeming  to  find  a  pleasure  in  the  gravity  and  earnestness 
of  the  young  man,  and  he  in  turn  a  relief  in  the  nervous,  jerky  lawyer, 
looking  always  through  small,  half-closed  eyes  and  full  of  keen  con 
ceptions.  And  when  apart,  occasionally  he  would  get  a  characteristic 
note  from  Abingdon  and  send  a  letter  in  reply.  He  had  so  much 
spare  time. 

This  man  had  once  surprised  him  with  the  remark: 

"If  I  were  twenty  years  younger  I  would  go  to  Jena  and  study 
vibration-  It  is  the  greatest  force  of  the  universe.  It  is  the  secret 
of  creation.''  The  more  Edward  dwelt  upon  this  remark,  in  connect 
ion  with  modern  results  and  invention,  the  more  he  was  struck  with 
it.  Why  go  to  Jena  to  study  vibration  was  something  that  he  could 
not  fathom,  nor  in  all  probability  could  Abingdon.  America  was 
really  the  advanced  line  of  discovery,  but  nevertheless  he  went,  and 
with  important  results;  and  there  in  the  old  town,  finding  the  new 
hobby  so  intimately  connected  with  music,  to  which  he  was  passion 
ately  devoted,  he  took  up  with  renewed  energy  his  neglected  violin. 
With  feverish  toil  he  struggled  along  the  border  land  of  study  and 
speculation,  uptil  he  felt  that  there  was  nothing  more  possible  for 
him — in  Jena. 

In  Jena  his  solitary  friend  had  been  the  eminent  Virdow  and  to 
him  he  became  an  almost  inseparable  companion. 

The  confidence  and  speculations  of  Virdow,  extending  far  beyond 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"        39 

the  limits  of  a  lecture  stand,  carried  Edward  into  dazzling  fields. 
The  intercourse  extended  through  the  best  part  of  several  years.  On 
leaving  Jena  he  was  armed  with  a  knowledge  of  the  possibilities  of 
the  vast  field  he  had  entered  upon,  with  a  knowledge  of  thorough  bass 
and  harmony,  and  with  a  technique  that  might  have  made  him  famous 
had  he  applied  his  knowledge.  He  did  not  apply  it! 

His  final  stand  had  been  Paris.  Abingdon  was  there.  Abingdon 
had  discovered  a  genius  and  carried  Edward  to  see  him.  He  had 
been  passing  through  an  obscure  quarter  when  he  was  attracted  by 
the  singular  pathos  of  a  violin  played  in  a  garret.  To  use  his  ex 
pression,  "the  music  glorified  the  miserable  street."  Everybody  there 
knew  Benoni,  the  blind  violinist.  And  to  this  man,  awed  and  silent, 
came  Edward,  a  listener. 

No  words  can  express  the  meaning  that  lay  in  the  blind1  man's  im 
provisations;  only  music  could  contain  them.  And  only  one  man  in 
Paris  could  answer!  When  having  heard  the  heart  language,  the 
heart  history  and  cravings  of  the  player  expressed  in  the  solitude  of 
that  half-lighted  garret,  Edward  took  the  antique  instrument  and 
replied,  the  answer  was  overwhelming.  The  blind  man  understood; 
he  threw  his  arms  about  the  player  and  embraced  him. 

"Grand!"  he  cried.  "A  master  plays,  but  it  is  incomplete;  the 
final  note  has  not  come;  the  harmony  died  where  it  should  have  be 
come  immortal!"  And  Edward  knew  it. 

From  that  meeting  sprang  a  warm  friendship,  the  most  complete 
that  Morgan  had  ever  known!  It  made  the  old  man  comfortable, 
gained  him  better  quarters  and  broadened  the  horizon  toward  which 
his  sun  of  life  was  setting.  It  would  go  down  with  some  of  the  colors 
of  its  morning. 

It  became  Edward's  custom  to  take  his  old  friend  to  hear  the  best 
operas  and  concerts,  and  one  night  they  heard  the  immortal  Gambia 
sing.  It  was  a  charity  concert  and  her  first  appearance  in  many 
years. 

When  the  idol  of  the  older  Paris  came  to  the  footlights  for  the 
sixth  time  to  bow  her  thanks  for  the  ovation  given  her,  she  smiled 
and  sang  in  German  a  love  song,  indescribable  in  its  passion  and 
tenderness.  It  was  a  burst  of  melody  from  the  heart  of  some  man, 
great  one  moment  in  his  life  at  least.  Edward  found  himself  stand 
ing  when  the  tumult  ceased.  Benoni  had  sunk  from  his  chair  to  his 
knees  and  was  but  half-conscious.  The  excitement  had  partially 
paralyzed  him.  The  lithe  fingers  of  the  left  hand  were  dead.  They 


40  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

would  never  rest  again  upon  the  strings  of  his  great  violin — the 
Cremona  to  which  in  sickness  and  poverty,  although  its  sale  would 
have  enriched  him,  he  clung  with  the  faith  and  instinct  of  the  artist. 
There  came  the  day  when  Edward  was  ready  to  depart  to  America- 
He  went  to  say  good-bye,  and  this  is  what  happened:  The  old  man 
held  Edward's  hands  long  in  silence,  but  his  lips  moved  in  prayer; 
then  lifting  the  instrument,  he  placed  it  in  the  young  man's  arms. 

"Take  it,"  he  said.  "I  may  never  meet  you  again.  It  is  the  one 
thing  that  I  have  been  true  to  all  my  life.  I  will  not  leave  it  to 
the  base  and  heartless.''  And  so  Edward,  to  please  him,  accepted 
the  trust.  He  would  return  some  day;  many  hours  should  the  violin 
sing  for  the  old  man.  As  he  stood  he  drew  the  bow  and  played  one 
strain  of  Gambia's  song  and  the  blind  man  lifted  his  face  in  sudden 
excitement.  As  Edward  paused  he  called  the  notes  until  it  was  com 
plete.  "Now  again,"  he  said,  singing: 

If  thou  couldst  love  me 

As  I  do  love  thee, 

Then  wouldst  thou  come  to  me, 

Come  to  me. 

Never   forsaking  me, 

Never,  oh,  never 

Forsaking  me. 

Oceans  may  roll  between, 

Thine  home  and  thee 

Love,  if  thou  lovest  me 

Lovest  me, 

What  care  we,  you  and  I? 

Through  all  eternity, 

I  love  thee,  darling  one, 

Love  me;  love  me. 

"You  have  found  the  secret,"  said  Benoni;  "the  chords  on  the  lower 
octaves  made  the  song." 

And  so  they  had  parted !  The  blind  man  to  wait  for  the  final  sum 
mons;  the  young  man  to  plunge  into  complications  beyond  his  wildest 
dreams. 

"A  man,"  said  Virdow  once,  "is  a  tribe  made  up  of  himself,  his 

family  and  his  friends."     And  this  was  the  history  in  outline  of  the 

man  to  whom  Rita  Morgan  handed  the  violin  that  fateful  day  when 

Gerald  lay  face  down  among  the  pillows  of  his  divan. 

Recognizing  in  the  delicate  and  excitable  organism  before  him  the 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"        41 

possibilities  of  emotion  and  imagination,  Edward  prepared  to  play. 
Without  hesitation  he  drew  the  bow  across  the  strings  and  began  a 
solemn  prelude  to  a  choral.  And  as  he  played  he  noticed  the  heaving 
form  below  him  grow  still.  Then  Gerald  lifted  his  face  and  gazed 
past  the  player,  with  an  intensity  of  vision  that  deepened  until  he 
seemed  in  the  grasp  of  some  stupendous  power  or  emotion.  Edward 
played  the  recital ;  the  story  of  Calvary,  the  crucifixion  and  the  mourn 
ing  women,  and  the  march  of  soldiers.  Finally  there  came  the  tumult 
of  bursting  storm  and  riven  tombs.  The  climax  of  action  occurred 
there;  it  was  to  die  away  into  a  movement  fitted  to  the  resurrection 
and  the  peaceful  holiness  of  Christ's  meeting  with  Mary.  But  before 
this  latter  movement  began  Gerald  leaped  upon  the  player  with  the 
quickness  and  fury  of  a  tiger  and  by  the  suddenness  of  the  onset 
nearly  bore  him  to  the  floor.  This  mad  assault  was  accompained  by 
a  shriek  of  mingled  fear  and  horror. 

"Back — would  you  murder  her?"  By  a  great  effort  Edward  freed 
himself  and  -the  endangered  violin,  and  forced  the  assailant  to  the 
divan.  The  octoroon  was  kneeling  by  his  side  weeping. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  she  said.  Stunned  and  inexpressibly  shocked 
Edward  withdrew.  The  grasp  on  his  throat  had  been  like  steel !  The 
marks  remained. 

"I  have,"  he  wrote  that  night  in  a  letter  to  Virdow,  "heard  you 
more  than  once  express  the  hope  that  you  would  some  day  be  able 
to  visit  America.  Come  now,  at  once!  I  have  here  entered  upon  a 
new  life  and  need  your  help.  Further,  I  believe  I  can  help  you." 

After  describing  the  circumstances  already  related,  the  letter  con 
tinued:  "The  susceptibility  of  this  mind  to  music  I  regard  as  one 
of  the  most  startling  experiences  I  have  ever  known,  and  it  will  afford 
you  an  opportunity  for  testing  your  theories  under  circumstances  you 
can  never  hope  for  again.  Let  me  say  to  you  here  that  I  am  now 
convinced  by  some  intuitive  knowledge  that  the  assault  upon  me  was 
based  upon  a  memory  stirred  by  the  sound  of  the  violin;  that  vibra 
tion  created  anew  in  the  delicate  mind  some  picture  that  had  been 
forgotten  and  brought  back  again  painful  emotions  that  were  ungov 
ernable.  I  cannot  think  but  that  it  is  to  have  a  bearing  upon  the  con 
cealed  facts  of  my  life;  the  discovery  of  which  is  my  greatest  object 
now,  as  in  the  past.  And  I  cannot  but  believe  that  your  advice  and 
discretion  will  guide  me  in  tide  treatment  and  care  of  this  poor  being, 
perhaps  to  the  extent  of  affecting  a  radical  change,  and  leave  him  a 
happier  and  a  more  rational  being. 


42  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Come  to  me,  my  friend,  at  once!  I  am  troubled  and  perplexed. 
And  do  not  be  offended  that;  I  have  inclosed  exchange  for  an  amount 
large  enough  to  cover  expenses-  I  am  now  rich  beyond  the  compre 
hension  of  your  economical  German  mind,  and  surely  I  may  be  al 
lowed,  in  the  interests  of  science,  of  my  ward  and  myself  to  spend 
from  the  abundant  store.  I  look  for  you  early.  In  the  meantime, 
I  will  be  careful  in  my  experiments.  Come  at  once!  The  mind  has 
an  independent  memory  and  you  can  demonstrate  it.'* 

Edward  knew  that  there  was  more  on  that  concluding  sentence 
than  in  the  rest  of  the  letter  and  exchange  combined,  and  half -believ 
ing  it,  he  stated  it  as  a  prophecy.  He  was  preparing  to  retire,  when 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  strange  occupant  of  the  wing-room  might 
need  his  attention.  Something  like  affection  had  sprung  up  in  his 
heart  for  the  unfortunate  being  who,  with  chains  heavier  than  his 
own,  had  missed  the  diversion  of  new  scenes,  the  broadening,  the 
soothing  of  great  landscapes  and  boundless  oceans.  A  pity  moved 
him  to  descend  and  to  knock  at  the  door.  There  was  no  answer.  He 
entered  to  find  the  apartment  deserted,  but  the  curtain  was  drawn 
from  the  doorway  of  the  glass-room  and  he  passed  in.  Upon  the  bed 
in  the  yellow  light  of  the  moon  lay  the  slender  figure  of  Gerald,  one 
arm  thrown  around  the  disordered  hair,  the  other  hanging  listless 
from  his  side. 

He  approached  and  bent  above  the  bed.  The  face  turned  upward 
there  seemed  like  wax  in  the  oft-broken  gloom.  The  sleeper  had  not 
stirred.  It  was  the  vibration  of  chords  in  harmony,  that  had  moved 
him.  Would  it  have  power  again?  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
returned  quickly  to  the  wing-room  and  secured  his  instrument.  Con 
cealing  himself  he  waited.  It  was  but  a  moment. 

The  wind  brought  the  branches  of  the  nearest  oleanders  against 
the  frail  walls,  and  the  play  of  lightning  had  become  continuous. 
Then  began  in  earnest  the  tumult  of  the  vast  sound  waves  as  they 
met  in  the  vapory  caverns  of  the  sky.  The  sleeper  tossed  restlessly 
upon  his  bed;  he  was  stirred  by  a  vague  but  unknown  power;  yet 
something  was  wanting. 

At  this  moment  Edward  lifted  his  violin  and,  catching  the  storm 
note,  wove  a  solemn  strain  into  the  diapason  of  the  mighty  organ  of 
the  sky.  And  as  he  played,  as  if  by  one  motion,  the  sleeper  stood 
»lone  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Again  Edward  saw  t.iat  frenzied 
stare  fixed  upon  vacancy,  but  there  was  no  furious  leap  of  the  agile 
limbs;  by  a  powerful  effort  the  struggling  mind  seemed  to  throw 


ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL  4* 

off  a  weight  and  the  sleeper  awoke. 

The  bow  was  now  suspended;  the  music  had  ceased.  Gerald  rushed 
to  his  easel  and,  standing  in  a  sea  of  electric  flame,  outlined  with 
swift  strokes  a  woman's  face  and  form.  She  was  struggling  in  the 
grasp  of  a  man  and  her  face  was  the  face  of  the  artist  who  worked. 
But  such  expression!  Agony,  horror,  despair! 

The  figure  of  the  man  was  not  complete  from  the  waist  down;  his 
face  was  concealed.  Between  them,  as  they  contended,  was  a  child's 
coffin  in  the  arms  of  the  woman.  Overhead  were  the  bare  outlines 
of  an  arch. 

The  artist  hesitated  and  added  behind  the  group  a  tree,  whoso 
branches  seemed  to  lash  the  ground.  And  there  memory  failed;  the 
crayon  fell  from  his  fingers;  he  stood  listless  by  the  canvas.  Then 
with  a  cry  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept. 

As  he  stood  thus,  the  visitor,  awed  but  triumphant,  glided  through 
the  door  and  disappeared  in  the  wing-room.  He  knew  that  he  had 
touched  a  hidden  chord;  that  the  picture  on  the  canvas  was  born 
under  the  flash-light  of  memory!  Was  it  brain?  Oh,  for  the  wisdom 
of  Virdow! 

Sympathy  moved  him  to  return  again  to  the  glass-room-  It  was 
empty ! 


CHAPTER     VIII. 
ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL. 

Edward  found  himself  next  day  feverish  and  mentally  disturbed; 
but  he  felt  new  life  in  the  morning  air.  There  was  a  vehicle  avail 
able  ;  a  roomy  buggy,  after  the  fashion  of  those  chosen  by  physicians, 
with  covered  tops  to  keep  out  the  sun,  and  rubber  aprons  for  the 
rain.  And  there  was  a  good  reliable  horse,  that  had  traveled  the 
city  road  almost  daily  for  ten  years. 

He  finished  his  meal  and  started  out.  In  the  yard  he  found  Gerald 
pale  and  with  the  contracted  pupils  that  betrayed  his  deadly  habit. 
He  was  taking  views  with  a  camera  and  came  forward  with  breath 
less  interest. 

"I  am  trying  some  experiments  with  photographs  on  the  line  of 


44  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

our  conversation,"  he  said.  "If  the  mind  pictures  can  be  revived 
they  must  necessarily  exist.  Do  they?  The  question  with  me  now 
is,  can  any  living  substance  retain  a  photographic  impression?  You 
understand,  it  seems  that  the  brain  can  receive  these  impressions 
through  certain  senses,  but  the  brain  is  transient;  through  a  peculiar 
process  of  supply  and  waste  it  is  always  coming  and  going.  If  it 
is  true  that  every  atom  of  our  physical  bodies  undergoes  a  change 
at  least  once  in  seven  years,  how  can  the  impressions  survive?  I 
have  here  upon  my  plate  the  sensitized  film  of  a  fish's  eyes;  I 
caught  it  this  morning.  I  must  establish,  first,  the  proposition 
that  a  living  substance  can  receive  a  photographic  image;  if  I  can 
make  an  impression  remain  upon  this  film  I  have  gained  a  little  point — 
a  little  one.  But  the  fish  should  be  alive.  There  are  almost  insuper 
able  difficulties,  you  understand!  The  time  will  come  when  a  new 
light  will  be  made,  so  powerful,  penetrating  as  to  illumine  solids. 
Then,  perhaps,  will  the  brain  be  seen  at  work  through  the  skull; 
then  may  its  tiny  impressions  even  be  found  and  enlarged;  then  will 
the  past  give  up  its  secrets.  And  the  eye  is  not  the  brain."  He 
looked  away  in  perplexity.  "If  I  only  had  brain  substance,  brain 
substance — a  living  brain!"  He  hurried  away  and  Edward  resumed 
his  journey  to  the  city,  sad  and  thoughtful. 

"It  was  not  wise,''  he  said,  "it  was  not  wise  to  start  Garald  upon 
that  line  of  thought.  And  yet  why  not  as  well  one  fancy  as  another?" 
He  had  no  conception  of  the  power  of  an  idea  in  such  a  mind  &s 
Gerald's. 

"You  did  not  mention  to  me,"  he  said  an  hour  later,  sitting  in 
Eldridge's  office,  "that  I  would  have  a  ward  in  charge  out  at  Ilex- 
hurst.  You  naturally  supposed  I  knew  it,  did  you  not?" 

"And  you  did  not  know  it?"  Eldridge  looked  at  him  in  unaffected 
astonishment. 

"Positively  not  until  the  day  after  I  reached  the  house!  I  had 
never  heard  of  Gerald  Morgan.  You  can  imagine  my  surprise,  when 
he  walked  in  upon  me  one  night." 

"You  really  astound  me;  but  it  is  just  like  old  Morgan — pardon 
me  if  I  smile.  Of  all  eccentrics  he  was  the  most  consisent.  Yes, 
you  have  a  charge  and  a  serious  one.  I  am  probably  the  only  person 
in  the  city  who  knows  something  of  Gerald,  and  my  information  is 
extremely  limited.  With  an  immense  capacity  for  acquiring  informa 
tion,  a  remarkable  memory  and  a  keen  analysis,  the  young  man  has 
never  developed  the  slightest  capacity  for  business.  He  received 


ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL  45 

everything,  but  applied  nothing.  I  was  informed  by  his  uncle,  not 
long  since,  that  there  was  no  science  exact  or  occult  into  which  Gerald 
had  not  delved  at  some  time,  but  his  mind  seemed  content  with  simply 
finding  out.'' 

"Gerald  has  beeen  a  most  prodigious  reader,  devouring  everything." 
continued  the  judge,  "ancient  and  modern,  within  reach,  knows  lit 
erature  and  politics  equally  well,  and  is  master  of  most  languages 
to  the  point  of  being  able  to  read  themu  I  suppose  his  unfortunate 
habit — of  course  you  know  of  that — is  the  obstacle  now.  For  many 
years  now  I  believe,  the  young  man  has  not  been  off  the  plantation, 
and  only  at  long  intervals  was  he  ever  absent  from  it.  Ten  or  fifteen 
years  ago  he  used  to  be  seen  occasionally  in  the  city  in  search  of  a 
book,  an  instrument  or  something  his  impatience  could  not  wait  on." 

"Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago!  You  knew  him  then  before  he  was 
grown?" 

"I  have  known  him  ever  since  his  childhood!"  An  exclamation 
in  spite  of  him  escaped  from  Edward's  lips,  but  he  did  not  give 
Eldridge  time  to  reflect  upon  it. 

"Is  his  existence  generally  known?"  asked  he,  in  some  confusion. 

"Oh,  well,  the  public  knows  of  his  existence.  He  is  the  skeleton 
in  Morgan's  closet,  that  is  all." 

"And  who  is  he?"  asked  Edward,  looking  the  lawyer  straight 
into  the  eyes. 

"That,"  said  Eldridge,  gravely,  "is  what  I  would  ask  of  you." 
Edward  was  silent.  He  shook  his  head ;  it  was  an  admission  of  ignor 
ance,  confirmed  by  his  next  question. 

"Have  you  no  theory,  Judge,  to  account  for  his  existence  under 
such  circumstances?" 

"Theory?  Oh,  no!  The  public  and  myself  have  always  regarded 
him  simply  as  a  fact.  His  treatment  by  John  Morgan  was  one  of  the 
few  glimpses  we  got  of  the  old  man's  rough,  kind  nature.  But  his 
own  silence  seemed  to  beg  silence,  and  no  one  within  my  knowledge 
ever  spoke  with  him  upon  the  subject.  It  would  have  been  very  diffi 
cult,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "for  he  was  the  most  unapproachable 
man,  in  certain  respects,  that  I  ever  met-" 

"You  knew  him  well?  May  I  ask  if  ever  within  your  knowledge 
there  was  any  romance  or  tragedy  in  his  earlier  life?" 

"I  do  not  know  nor  have  I  ever  heard  of  any  tragedy  in  the  life 
of  your  relative,"  said  the  lawyer,  slowly;  and  then,  after  a  pause: 
"It  is  known  to  men  of  my  age,  at  least  remembered  by  some,  that 


46  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

late  in  life,  or  when  about  forty  years  old,  he  conceived  a  violent 
attachment  for  the  daughter  of  a  planter  in  this  county  and  was, 
it  is  said,  at  one  time  engaged  to  her.  The  match  was  sort  of  family 
arrangement  and  the  girl  very  young.  She  was  finishing  her  educa 
tion  at  the  north  and  was  to  have  been  married  upon  her  re 
turn;  but  she  never  returned.  She  ran  away  to  Europe  with  one  of 
her  teachers.  The  war  came  on  and  with  it  the  blockade.  No  one 
has  ever  heard  of  her  since.  Her  disappearance,  her  existence,  were 
soon  forgotten.  I  remember  her  because  I,  then  a  young  lawyer,  had 
been  called  occasionally  to  her  father's  house,  where  I  met  and  was 
greatly  impressed  by  her.  But  I  am  probably  one  of  the  few  who 
have  carried  in  mind  her  features.  She  was  a  beautiful  and  lovable 
young  woman,  but,  without  a  mother's  training  she  had  grown  up 
self-willed  and  the  result  was  as  I  have  told  you."  Edward  had  risen 
and  was  walking  the  floor.  He  paused  before  the  speaker. 

"Judge  Eldridge,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  little  unsteady,  "I  am  going 
to  ask  you  a  question,  which  I  trust  you  will  be  free  to  answer — will 
answer,  and  then  forget.''  An  expression  of  uneasiness  dwelt  on  the 
lawyer's  face,  but  he  answered: 

"Ask  it;  if  I  am  free  to  answer,  and  can,  I  will." 

"I  will  ask  it  straigEt,"  said  Edward,  resolutely:  "Have  you  ever 
suspected  that  Gerald  Morgan  is  the  son  of  the  young  woman  who 
went  away?" 

Eldridge's  reply  was  simply  a  grave  bow.    He  did  not  look  up. 

"You  do  not  know  that  to  be  a  fact?" 

"I  do  not.'' 

"What,  then,  is  my  duty?" 

"To  follow  the  directions  left  by  your  relative,"  said  Eldridge, 
promptly. 

Edward  reflected  a  few  moments  over  the  lawyer's  answer. 

"I  agree  with  you,  but  time  may  bring  changes.  May  I  ask  what 
is  your  theory  of  this  strange  situation — as  regards  my  ward?" 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  betray  the  fact  of  his  own  mystery. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Eldridge,  slowly,  "that  if  your  guess  is  correct 
the  adventure  of  the  lady  was  an  unfortunate  one,  and  that,  disowned 
at  home,  she  made  John  Morgan  the  guardian  of  her  boy.  She,  more 
than  likely,  is  long  since  dead.  It  would  have  been  entirely  consis 
tent  with  your  uncle's  character  if,  outraged  in  the  beginning,  he 
was  forgiving  and  chivalrous  in  the  end.'' 

"But  why  was  the  silence  never  broken?" 


ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL  47 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  was  never  broken.  I  have  nothing  to  go 
upon.  I  believe,  however,  that  it  never  was.  The  explanations  that 
suggest  themselves  to  my  mind  are,  first,  a  pledge  of  silence  exacted 
from  him,  and  he  would  have  kept  such  a  pledge  under  any  circum 
stances.  Second,  a  difficulty  in  proving  the  legitimacy  of  the  boy. 
You  will  understand,"  he  added,  "that  the  matter  is  entirely  sup- 
positious.  I  would  prefer  to  think  that  your  uncle  saw  unhap- 
piness  for  the  boy  in  a  change  of  guardianship,  and  unhappiness 
for  the  grandfather,  and  left  the  matter  open.  You  know  he  died 
suddenly." 

There  was  silence  of  a  few  moments  and  Eldridge  added:  "And 
yet  it  does  seem  that  he  would  have  left  the  old  man  something  to 
settle  the  doubt  which  must  have  rested  upon  his  mind ;  it  is  an  awful 
thing  to  lose  a  daughter  from  sight  and  live  out  one's  life  in  igno 
rance  of  her  fate."  And  then,  as  Edward  made  no  reply,  "you  found 
nothing  whatever  to  explain  the  matter?" 

"Nothing!  In  the  desk,  to  which  his  note  directed  me,  I  found 
only  a  short  letter  of  directions;  one  of  which  was  that  I  should 
arrange  with  you  to  provide  for  Gerald's  future  in  case  of  my  death. 
The  desk  contained  nothing  else  except  some  manuscripts — fragmen 
tary  narratives  and  descriptions,  they  seemed."  Eldridge  smiled. 

"His  one  weakness,"  he  said.  "Years  ago  John  Morgan  became 
impressed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  fitted  for  literary  work  and 
began  to  write  short  stories  for  magazines,  under  nom  de  plume. 
I  was  the  only  person  who  shared  his  secret  and  together  we  told 
many  a  good  story  of  bench,  bar  and  practice.  Neither  of  us  had 
much  invention  and  our  career — you  see  I  claim  a  share — our  career 
was  limited  to  actual  occurrences.  When  our  stock  of  ammunition 
was  used  up  we  were  bankrupt.  But  it  was  a  success  while  it  lasted. 
Mr.  Morgan  had  a  rapid,  vivid  style  of  presenting  scenes;  his  stories 
were  full  of  action  and  dramatic  situations  and  made  quite  a  hit.  I 
did  not  know  he  had  any  writings  left  over.  He  used  to  say,  though, 
as  I  remember  now,  speaking  in  the  serio-comic  way  he  often  affected, 
that  the  great  American  novel,  so  long  expected,  lay  in  his  desk  in 
fragments.  You  have  probably  gotten  among  these. 

"And  by  the  way,"  continued  the  judge,  impressively,  "he  was  not 
far  wrong  in  his  estimate  of  the  literary  possibilities  of  this  section. 
The  peculiar  institutions  of  the  south,  its  wealth,  its  princely  planters, 
and  through  all  the  tangle  of  love,  romance,  tragedy  and  family 
secrets.  And  what  a  background !  The  war,  the  freed  slaves,  the  old 


48  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

regime — courtly,  unchanged,  impractical  and  helpless.  Turgeneff 
wrote  under  such  a  situation  in  Russia,  and  called  his  powerful  novel 
'Fathers  and  Sons.'  Mr.  Morgan  used  to  say  that  he  was  going  to 
call  his  'Sons  and  Fathers.'  Hold  to  his  fragments;  he  was  a  close 
observer,  and  if  you  have  literary  aspirations  they  will  be  suggestive." 
Edward  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  none,  but  I  see  the  force  of  your  outline.  Now  about  Gerald; 
I  trust  you  will  think  over  the  matter  and  let  me  know  what  your 
judgment  suggests.  I  promised  Mr.  Montjoy  to  drop  in  at  the  club. 
I  will  say  good-morning.5' 

"No,"  said  Eldridge,  "it  is  my  lunch  hour  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

Together  they  went  to  a  business  club  and  Edward  was  presented 
to  a  group  of  elderly  men  who  were  discussing  politics  over  their 
glasses.  Among  them  was  CoL  Montjoy,  in  town  for  a  day,  several 
capitalists,  a  planter  or  two,  lawyers  and  physicians.  They  regarded 
the  newcomer  with  interest  and  received  him  with  perfect  courtesy. 
"A  grand  man  your  relative  was,  Mr.  Morgan,  a  grand  man;  perfect 
type,  sir,  of  the  southern  gentleman!  The  community,  sir,  has  met 
with  an  irreparable  loss.  I  trust  you  will  make  your  home  here, 
sir.  We  need  good  men,  sir;  strong,  brainy,  energetic  men,  sir." 

So  said  the  central  figure,   Gen.   Albert  Evan. 

"Montjoy,  you  remember  cousin  Sam  Pope  of  the  Fire-Eaters — 
died  in  the  ditch  at  Marye's  Heights  near  Cobb?  Perfect  likeness  of 
Mr.  Morgan  here;  same  face  same  figure — pardon  the  personal  al 
lusion,  Mr.  Morgan,  but  your  prototype  was  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
You  do  each  other  honor  in  the  resemblance,  sir!  Waiter,  fill  these 
glasses!  Gentlemen,"  cried  the  general,  "we  will  drink  to  the  health 
of  our  young  friend  and  the  memory  of  Sam  Pope.  God  bless  them 
both." 

Such  was  Edward's  novel  reception,  and  he  would  not  have  been 
human  had  he  not  flushed  with  pleasure.  The  conversation  ran  back 
gradually  to  its  original  channel. 

"We  have  been  congratulating  Col.  Montjoy,  Mr.  Morgan,''  said 
one  of  the  party  in  explanation  to  Morgan,  "upon  the  announcement 
of  his  candidacy  for  congress." 

"Ah,"  said  the  latter,  promptly  bowing  to  the  old  gentleman,  "let 
me  express  the  hope  that  the  result  will  be  such  as  will  enable  me  to 
congratulate  the  country.  I  stand  ready,  colonel,  to  lend  my  aid  as 
far  as  possible,  but  I  am  hampered  somewhat  by  not  knowing  my 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  STORM  49 

own  politics  yet.  Are  you  on  the  Democratic  or  Republican  ticket, 
colonel?" 

This  astonishing  question  silenced  the  conversation  instantly  and 
drew  every  eye  upon  him.  But  recovering  from  his  shock,  Col.  Mont- 
joy  smiled  amiably,  and  said: 

"There  is  but  one  party  in  this  state,  sir — the  Democratic.  I  am 
a  candidate  for  nomination,  but  nomination  is  election  always  with 
us."  Then  to  the  others  present  he  added:  "Mr.  Morgan  has  lived 
abroad  since  he  came  of  age — I  am  right,  ami  I  not,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Quite  so.  And  I  may  add,"  continued  Edward,  who  was  painfully 
conscious  of  having  made  a  serious  blunder,  "that  I  have  never  lived 
in  the  south  and  know  nothing  of  state  politics.'"  This  would  have 
been  sufficient,  but  unfortunately  Edward  did  not  realize  it.  "I  know, 
however,  that  you  have  here  a  great  problem  and  that  the  world  is 
watching  to  see  how  you  will  handle  the  race  question.  I  wish  you 
success;  the  negro  has  my  sympathy  and  I  think  that  much  can  be 
safely  allowed  him  in  the  settlement." 

He  remembered  always  thereafter  the  silence  that  followed  this 
earnest  remark,  and  he  had  cause  to  remember  it.  He  had  touched 
the  old  south  in  its  rawest  point  and  he  was  too  new  a  citizen. 
Eldridge  joined  him  in  the  walk  back,  but  Edward  let  him  talk  for 
both.  The  direction  of  his  thoughts  was  indicated  in  the  question  he 
asked  at  parting. 

"Judge  Eldridge,  did  you  purposely  withhold  the  girl's  name — my 
uncle's  fiancee?  If  so,  I  will  not  ask  it,  but " 

"No,  not  purposely,  but  we  handle  names  reluctantly  in  this  country. 
She  was  Marion  Evan,  and  you  but  recently  met  her  father." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  STORM. 

Edward  returned  to  Ilexhurst  that  evening  conscious  of  a  mental 
uneasiness.  He  could  not  account  for  it  except  upon  the  hypothesis 
of  unusual  excitement.  His  mind  had  simply  failed  to  react.  And 
yet  to  his  sensitive  nature  there  was  something  more-  Was  it  the 
conversation  with  Eldridge  and  the  sudden  dissipation  of  his  error 


50  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

concerning  Gerald,  or  did  it  date  to  the  meeting  in  the  club?  There 
was  a  discord  somewhere.  He  became  conscious  after  awhile  that 
he  had  failed  to  harmonize  with  his  new  acquaintances  and  that  among 
these  was  Col.  Montjoy.  He  seemed  to  feel  an  ache  as  though  a  cold 
wind  blew  upon  his  heart.  If  he  had  not  made  that  unfortunate  re 
mark  about  the  negro!  He  acquitted  himself  very  readily,  but  he 
could  not  forget  that  terrible  silence.  "I  have  great  sympathy  for 
the  negro,"  he  had  said.  What  he  meant  was  that,  secure  in  her 
power  and  intelligence,  her  courage  and  advancement,  the  south  could 
safely  concede  much  to  the  lower  class.  That  is  what  he  felt  and 
believed,  but  he  had  not  said  it  that  way.  He  would  say  it  to-morrow 
to  Col.  Montjoy  and  explain.  Relief  followed  the  resolution. 

And  then,  sitting  in  the  little  room,  which  began  to  exert  a  strange 
power  over  him,  he  reviewed  in  mind  the  strange  history  of  the  people 
whose  lives  had  begun  to  touch  his.  The  man  downstairs,  sleeping 
off  the  effects  of  the  drug,  taken  to  dull  a  feverish  brain  that  had 
all  day  struggled  with  new  problems;  what  a  life  his  was!  Educated 
beyond  the  scope  of  any  single  university,  Eldridge  had  said,  and 
yet  a  child,  less  than  a  child!  What  romance,  what  tragedies  behind 
those  restless  eyes!  And  sleeping  down  yonder  by  the  river  in  that 
eternal  silence  of  the  city  of  the  dead,  the  old  lawyer,  a  mystery  liv 
ing,  a  mystery  dead!  What  a  depth  of  love  must  have  stirred  the 
bosom  of  the  man  to  endure  in  silence  for  so  many  years  for  the  sake 
of  a  fickle  girl!  What  forgiveness!  Or  was  it  revenge?  This  idea 
flashed  upon  Edward  with  the  suddenness  of  an  inspiration.  Revenge! 
What  a  revenge!  And  the  woman,  was  she  living  or  dead?  And  if 
living,  were  her  eyes  to  watch  him,  Edward  Morgan,  and  his  conduct? 
Where  was  the  father  and  why  was  the  grandfather  ignorant  or 
silent?  Then  he  turned  to  his  own  problem.  That  was  an  old  story. 
As  he  sat  dreaming  over  these  things  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  fragmen 
tary  manuscripts,  and  almost  idly  he  began  to  read  the  briefs  upon 
them. 

One  was  inscribed,  "The  Storm,"  and  it  seemed  to  be  the  bulkiest. 
Opening  it  he  began  to  read;  before  he  knew  it  he  was  interested. 
The  chapter  read: 

"Not  a  zephyr  stirred  the  expectant  elms.  They  lifted  their  arms 
against  the  starlit  sky  in  shadowy  tracery,  and  motionless  as  a  forest 
of  coral  in  the  tideless  depths  of  a  southern  sea, 

"The   cloud  still  rose. 

"It  was  a   cloud  indeed.     It  stretched  across  the  west,  far  into 


THE  TRAGEDY   IN  THE   STORM  51 

north  and  south,  its  base  lost  in  the  shadow,  its  upper  line  defined  and 
advancing  swiftly,  surely,  flanking  the  city  and  shutting  out  the  stars 
with  its  mighty  wings.  Far  down  the  west  the  lightning  began  to 
tear  the  mass,  but  still  the  spell  of  silence  remained.  When  this 
strange  hush  is  combined  with  terrific  action,  when  the  vast  forces 
are  so  swift  as  to  outrun  sound,  then,  indeed,  does  the  chill  of  fear 
leap  forth. 

"So  came  on  the  cloud.  Now  the  city  was  half  surrounded,  its 
walls  scaled.  Half  the  stars  were  gone.  Some  of  the  flying  battal 
ions  had  even  rushed  past! 

"But  the  elms  stood  changeless,  immovable,  asleep! 

"Suddenly  one  vivid,  crackling,  tearing,  defending  flash  of  inten- 
sest  light  split  the  gloom  and  the  thunder  leaped  into  the  city! 
It  awoke  then !  Every  foundation  trembled !  Every  tree  dipped  furi 
ously.  The  winds  burst  in.  What  a  tumult!  They  rushed  down  the 
parallel  streets  and  alleys,  these  barbarians;  they  came  by  the  inter 
secting  ways!  They  fought  each  other  frantically  for  the  spoils  of 
the  city,  struggling  upward  in  equal  conflict,  carrying  dust  and  leaves 
and  debris.  They  were  sucked  down  by  the  hollow  squares,  they  wept 
and  mourned,  they  sobbed  about  doorways,  they  sung  and  cheered 
among  the  chimneys  and  the  trembling  vanes.  They  twisted  away 
great  tree  limbs  and  hurled  them  far  out  into  the  spaces  which  the 
lightning  hollowed  in  the  night!  They  drove  every  inhabitant  in 
doors  and  tugged  frantically  at  the  city's  defenses!  They  tore  off 
shutters  and  lashed  the  housetops  with  the  poor  trees! 

"The  focus  of  the  battle  was  the  cathedral!  It  was  the  citadel! 
Here  was  wrath  and  frenzy  and  despair!  The  winds  swept  around 
and  upward,  with  measureless  force,  and  at  times  seemed  to  lift  the 
great  pile  from  its  foundations.  But  it  was  the  lashing  trees  that  de 
ceived  the  eye;  it  stood  immovable,  proud,  strong,  while  the  evil  ones 
hurled  their  maledictions  and  screamed  defiance  at  the  very  door  of 
God's  own  heart. 

"In  vain.  In  a  far  up  niche  stood  a  weather-beaten  saint — the 
warden.  The  hand  of  God  upheld  him  and  kept  the  citadel  while 
unseen  forces  swung  the  great  bell  to  voice  his  faith  and  trust  amid 
the  gloom! 

"Then  came  the  deluge,  huge  drops,  bullets  almost,  in  fierceness, 
shivering  each  other  until  the  street-lamps  seemed  set  in  driving  fog 
through  which  the  silvered  missiles  flashed  horizontally — a  storm  travel 
ing  within  a  storm. 


52  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"But  when  the  tempest  weeps,  its  heart  is  gone.  Hark!  Tis  the 
voice  of  the  great  organ;  how  grand,  how  noble,  how  triumphant! 
One  burst  of  melody  louder  than  the  rest  breaks  through  the  storm 
and  mingles  with  the  thunder's  roar. 

"Look!  A  woman!  She  has  come,  whence  God  alone  may  know! 
She  totters  toward  the  cathedral;  a  step  more  and  she  is  safe,  but 
it  is  never  taken !  One  other  frightened  life  has  sought  the  sanctuary. 
In  the  grasp  of  the  tempest  it  has  traveled  with  wide-spread  wings; 
a  great  white  sea  bird,  like  a  soul  astray  in  the  depths  of  passion. 
It  falls  into  the  eddy,  struggles  wearily  toward  the  lights,  whirls 
about  the  woman's  head  and  sinks,  gasping,  dying  at  her  feet.  The 
God-pity  rises  within  her,  triumphing  over  fear  and  mortal  anguish. 
She  stands  motionless  a  moment;  she  does  not  take  the  wanderer  to 
her  bosom,  she  cannot!  The  winds  have  stripped  the  cover  from  the 
burden  in  her  arms!  It  is  a  child's  coffin,  pressed  against  her  bosom. 
The  moment  of  safety  is  gone !  In  the  next  a  man,  the  seeming  incar 
nation  of  the  storm  itself,  springs  upon  her,  tears  the  burden  from 
her  and  disappears  like  a  shadow  within  a  shadow! 

"Within  the  cathedral  they  are  celebrating  the  birth  of  Christ, 
without,  the  elements  repeat  the  scene  when  the  veil  of  the  temple 

was  rended. 

***** 

"The  storm  had  passed.  The  lightning  still  blazed  vividly,  but 
silently  now,  and  at  each  flash  the  scene  stood  forth  an  instant  as 
though  some  mighty  artist  was  making  pictures  with  magnesium.  A 
tall  woman,  who  had  crouched,  as  one  under  the  influence  of  an  over 
powering  terror  near  the  inner  door,  now  crept  to  the  outer,  beneath 
the  arch,  and  looked  fearfully  about.  She  went  down  the  few  steps 
to  the  pavement.  Suddenly  in  the  transient  light  a  face  looked  up 
into  hers,  from  her  feet;  a  face  that  seemed  not  human.  The  fea 
tures  were  convulsed,  the  eyes  set.  With  a  low  cry  the  woman  slipped 
her  arms  under  the  figure  on  the  pavement,  lifted  it  as  though  it  were 
that  of  a  child  and  disappeared  in  the  night.  The  face  that  had 
looked  up  was  as  white  as  the  lily  at  noon ;  the  face  bent  in  pity  above 
it  was  dark  as  the  leaves  of  that  lily  scattered  upon  the  sod." 

Edward  read  this  and  smiled,  as  he  laid  it  aside,  and  continued 
with  the  other  papers.  They  were  brief  sketches  and  memoranda 
of  chapters;  sometimes  a  single  sentence  upon  a  page,  just  as  his 
friend  De  Maupassant  used  to  jot  them  down  one  memorable  sum 
mer  when  they  had  lingered  together  along  the  Riviera,  but  they  had 


"GOD  PITY  ME!    GOD  PITY  ME!"  53 

no  connection  with  "The  Storm"  and  the  characters  therein  suggested. 
If  they  belonged  to  the  same  narrative  the  connections  were  gone. 

Wearied  at  last  he  took  up  his  violin  and  began  to  play.  It  is  said 
that  improvisers  cannot  but  run  back  to  the  music  they  have  written. 
"Calvary"  was  his  masterpiece  and  soon  he  found  himself  lost  in 
its  harmonies.  Then  by  easy  steps  there  rose  in  memory,  as  he  played, 
the  storm  and  Gerald's  sketch.  He  paused  abruptly  and  sat  with  his 
bow  idle  upon  the  strings,  for  in  his  mind  a  link  had  formed  between 
that  sketch  and  the  chapter  he  had  just  read.  He  had  felt  the  story 
was  true  when  he  read  it.  The  lawyer  had  said  John  Morgan  wrote 
from  life.  Here  was  the  first  act  of  a  drama  in  the  life  of  a  child, 
and  the  last,  perhaps,  in  the  life  of  a  woman. 

And  that  child  under  the  influence  of  music  had  felt  the  storm 
scene  flash  upon  his  memory  and  had  drawn  it.  The  child  was  Gerald 
Morgan. 

Edward  laid  aside  the  violin  for  a  moment,  went  into  the  front 
room,  threw  open  the  shutters  and  loosened  his  cravat.  Something 
seemed  to  suffocate  him,  as  he  struggled  against  the  admission  of 
this  irresistible  conclusion.  Overwhelmed  with  the  significance  of 
the  discovery,  he  exclaimed  aloud:  "It  was  an  inherited  memory." 

But  if  the  boy  had  been  born  under  the  circumstances  set  forth  in 
the  sketch,  who  was  the  man,  and  why  should  he  have  assaulted  the 
woman  who  bore  the  child's  coffin?  And  what  was  she  doing  abroad 
under  such  circumstances?  The  man  and  the  woman's  object  was 
hidden  perhaps  forever.  But  not  so  the  woman ;  the  artist  had  given  her 
features,  and  as  for  the  other  woman,  the  author  had  said  she  was 
dark.  There  was  in  Gerald's  mind  picture  no  dark  woman;  only 
the  girl  with  the  coffin,  the  arch  above  and  the  faint  outlines  of 
bending  trees! 


CHAPTER  X. 
"GOD  PITY   ME!     GOD   PITY  ME!" 

Edward  was  sitting  thus  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  circum 
stances  surrounding  him,  when  by  that  subtle  sense  as  yet  not  ana 
lyzed  he  felt  the  presence  of  another  person  in  the  room,  and  looked 


54  SONS  AND   FATHERS 

over  his  shoulder.  Gerald  was  advancing  toward  him  smiling  mys 
teriously.  Edward  noticed  his  burning  eyes  and  saw  intense  mental 
excitement  gleaming  beyond.  The  man's  mood  was  different  from 
any  he  had  before  revealed. 

"So  you  have  been  out  among  the  friends  of  your  family,"  he  said, 
with  his  queer  smile.  "How  did  you  like  them?''  Edward  was  dis 
tinctly  offended  by  the  supercilious  manner  and  impertinent  question, 
but  he  remembered  his  ward's  condition  and  resentment  passed  from 
him. 

"Pleasant  people,  Gerald,  but  I  am  not  gifted  with  the  faculty  of 
making  friends  easily.  How  come  on  your  experiments?" 

The  visitor's  expression  changed.  He  looked  about  him  guardedly. 
"They  advance,"  he  replied,  in  a  whisper;  "they  advance!" 

Whatever  his  motive  for  entering  that  room — a  room  unfamiliar 
to  him,  for  his  restless  eyes  had  searched  it  over  and  over  in  the  few 
minutes  he  had  been  in  it — was  forgotten  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
scientist.  "I  have  mapped  out  a  course  and  am  working  toward  it," 
he  said;  and  then  presently:  "You  remember  that  pictures  can 
now  be  transmitted  by  electricity  across  great  stretches  of  space  and 
flashed  upon  a  disc?  So  goes  the  scene  from  the  convex  surface  of 
the  eye  along  a  thread-like  nerve,  so  flashed  the  picture  in  the  brain. 
But  somewhere  there  it  remains.  How  to  prove  it,  to  prove  it,  that 
is  the  question!  Oh,  for  a  brain,  a  brain  to  dissect!"  He  glared  at 
Edward,  who  shuddered  under  the  wildness  of  the  eyes  bent  upon  him- 
"But  time  enough  for  that;  I  must  first  ascertain  if  a  picture  can  be 
imprinted  upon  any  living  substance  by  light,  and  remain.  This  I 
can  do  in  another  way.'' 

"How?"     Edward  was  fascinated. 

"It  is  a  great  idea.  The  fish's  eye  will  not  do;  it  is  itself  a  camera 
and  the  protecting  film  is  impression-proof.  It  lacks  the  gelatine 
surface,  but  over  some  fish  is  spread  the  real  gelatine — in  fact,  the 
very  stuff  that  sensitive  plates  rely  upon.  In  our  lake  is  a  great 
bass,  that  swims  deep.  I  have  caught  them  weighing  ten  and  twelve 
pounds.  They  are  pale,  greenish  white  until  exposed  to  the  light, 
when  they  darken.  If  the  combined  action  of  the  light  and  air  did 
not  actually  destroy  this  gelatine,  they  would  turn  black.  The  back, 
which  daily  receives  the  downward  ray  direct,  is  as  are  the  backs  of 
most  fishes,  dark;  it  is  a  spoiled  plate.  But  not  so  the  sides.  It  i* 
upon  this  fish  I  am  preparing  to  make  pictures." 

"But  how?"    Gerald  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 


"GOD  PITY  ME!    GOD  PITY  ME!"  55 

"Wait.     It  is  too  important  to  talk  about  in  advance." 

Edward  regarded  him  long  and  thoughtfully  and  felt  rising  within 
him  a  greater  sympathy.  It  was  pitiful  that  such  a  mind  should  die 
in  the  embrace  of  a  mere  drug,  dragged  down  to  destruction  by  a 
habit.  "Beyond  the  scope  of  any  single  university,"  but  not  beyond 
the  slavery  of  a  weed. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Gerald,1'  he  said,  finally,  fixing  a  steady 
gaze  upon  the  restless  eyes  of  his  visitor,  "that  the  day  is  near  at 
hand  when  you  must  bring  to  your  rescue  the  power  of  a  great  will." 

Gerald  listened,  grew  pale  and  remained  silent.  Presently  he 
turned  to  the  speaker. 

"You  know,  then.     Tell  me  what  to  do." 

"You  must  cease  the  use  of  morphine  and  opium." 

Gerald  drew  a  deep  breath  and  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Oh,  that  is  it,"  he  said;  "some  one  has  told  you  that  I  am  a  victim 
of  morphine  and  opium.  Well,  what  would  you  think  if  I  should 
tell  you  he  is  simply  mistaken?" 

His  face  was  frank  and  unclouded.  Edward  gazed  upon  him,  in 
credulous.  After  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  Gerald  enjoyed 
his  astonishment,  he  continued: 

"I  was  once  a  victim;  there  is  no  doubt  of  that;  but  now  I  am 
cured.  It  was  a  frightful  struggle.  A  man  who  has  not  experienced 
it  or  witnessed  it  can  form  no  conception  of  what  it  means  to  break 
away  from  habitual  use  of  opium.  Some  day  you  may  need  it  and 
my  experience  will  help  you.  I  began  by  cutting  my  customary  al 
lowance  for  a  day  in  half,  and  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  I  kept 
cutting  it  in  half  until  the  time  came  when  I  could  not  divide  it  with 
a  razor.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  habit  was  as  strong  in  the  end  as 
the  beginning?  I  lay  awake  and  thought  of  that  little  speck  by  the 
hours;  I  tossed  and  cried  myself  to  sleep  over  it!  I  slept  and  wept 
myself  awake.  The  only  remedy  for  this  and  all  habits  is  a  mental 
victory.  I  made  the  fight — I  won! 

"I  can  never  forget  that  day,'1  and  he  smiled  as  he  said  it;  "the  day 
I  found  it  impossible  to  divide  the  speck  of  opium;  a  breath  would 
have  blown  it  away,  but  I  would  have  murdered  the  man  who  breathed 
upon  it.  I  swallowed  it;  the  touch  of  that  atom  is  yet  upon  my  tongue; 
I  swallowed  it  and  slept  like  a  child;  and  then  came  the  waking!  For 
days'  I  was  a  maniac — but  it  passed. 

"I  grew  into  a  new  life — a  beautiful,  peaceful  world-  It  had  been 
around  me  all  the  time  but  I  had  forgotten  how  it  looked;  a  blissful 


56  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

world!     I  was  cured. 

"Years  have  passed  since  that  day,  and  no  taste  of  the  hateful  drug 
has  ever  been  upon  my  tongue.  Not  for  all  the  gold  in  the  universe, 
not  for  any  secrets  of  science,  not  for  a  look  back  into  the  face  of 
my  mother,"  he  cried,  hoarsely,  rising  to  his  feet;  "not  for  a  smile 
from  heaven  would  would  I  lay  hands  upon  that  fiend  again!" 

He  closed  abruptly,  his  hand  trembling,  the  perspiration  beading 
his  brow.  His  eyes  fell  and  the  woman  Rita  stood  before  them,  a 
look  of  ineffable  sadness  and  tenderness  upon  her  face. 

"Will  you  retire  now,  Master  Gerald?"  she  said,  gently.  Without 
a  word  he  turned  and  left  the  room.  She  was  about  to  follow  when 
Edward,  excited  and  touched  by  the  scene  he  had  witnessed  and  full 
of  discoveries,  stopped  her  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

For  a  moment  he  paced  the  room.  Rita  was  motionless,  awaiting 
with  evident  nervousness  his  pleasure.  He  came  and  stood  before 
her,  and,  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face,  said,  abruptly: 

"Woman,  what  is  the  name  of  that  young  man,  and  what  is  mine?" 

She  drew  back  quickly  and  her  lips  parted  in  a  gasp. 

"My  God!"  he  heard  her  whisper. 

"I  demand  an  answer!  You  carry  the  secret  of  one  of  us — prob 
ably  both.  Which  is  the  son  of  Marion  Evans?" 

She  sank  upon  her  knees  and  hid  her  face  in  her  apron. 

It  was  all  true,  then.  Edward  felt  as  though  he  himself  would 
sink  down  beside  her  if  the  silence  continued. 

"Say  it,''  he  said,  hoarsely;  "say  it!" 

"As  God  is  my  judge,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "I  do  not  know." 

"One  is?" 

"One   is." 

"And  the  other — who  is  he?" 

"Mine."  The  answer  was  like  a  whisper  from  the  pines  wafted 
in  through  the  open  window.  It  was  loud  enough.  Edward  caught 
the  chair  for  support.  The  world  reeled  about  him.  He  suffocated. 

Rita  still  knelt  with  covered  head,  but  her  trembling  form  betrayed 
the  presence  of  the  long-restrained  emotions.  He  walked  unsteadily 
to  the  mantel,  and,  drawing  the  cover  from  the  little  picture,  went 
to  the  mirror  and  placed  it  again  by  his  face.  At  length  he  said  in 
despair: 

"God  pity  me!     God  pity  me!*' 

The  woman  arose  then  and  took  the  picture  and  gazed  long  and 
earnestly  upon  it.  A  sob  burst  from  her  lips-  Lifting  it  again  to 


"GOD  PITY  ME!    GOD  PITY  ME!"  57 

the  level  of  the  man's  face,  she  looked  from  one  to  the  othr. 

"Enough!"  he  said,  reading  it  aright. 

Despair  had  settled  over  his  own  face.  She  handed  back  the  little 
likeness,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  stood  in  simple  dignity  awaiting 
his  will.  He  noticed  then,  as  he  studied  her  countenance  closely,  the 
lines  of  suffering  there;  the  infallible  record  that  some  faces  carry, 
which,  whether  it  stands  for  remorse,  for  patience,  for  pure,  unbroken 
sorrow,  is  always  a  consecration. 

"Master,  it  must  have  come  some  time,"  she  said,  at  length,  "but 
I  have  hoped  it  would  not  be  through  me."  Her  voice  was  just  audible. 

"Be  seated,"  said  Morgan.  "If  your  story  is  true,  and  it  may  be 
so,  you  should  not  stand."  He  turned  away  from  her  and  walked 
to  the  window;  she  was  seeking  for  an  opening  to  begin  her  story. 
He  began  for  her: 

"You  crouched  in  a  church  door  to  avoid  the  storm;  a  woman  seek 
ing  shelter  there  appeared  just  outside.  She  was  attacked1  by  a  man 
and  fell  to  the  ground  unconscious;  you  carried  her  off  in  your  arms; 
her  child  was  born  soon  after,  and  what  then?'' 

Amazed  she  stared  at  him  a  moment  in  silence. 

"And  mine  was  born !  The  fright,  the  horror,  the  sickness !  It  was 
a  terrible  dream;  a  terrible  dream!  But  a  month  afterward,  I  was 
here  alone  with  two  babies  at  my  breast  and  the  mother  was  gone. 
God  help  me,  and  help  her!  But  in  that  time  Master  John  says  I 
lost  the  memory  of  my  child!  Master  Gerald  I  claimed,  but  his 
face  was  the  face  of  Miss  Marion,  and  he  was  white  and  delicate  like 
her.  And  you,  sir,  were  dark.  And  then  I  had  never  been  a  slave; 
John  Morgan's  father  gave  me  my  liberty  when  I  was  born.  I  lived 
with  him  until  my  marriage,  then  after  my  husband's  death,  which 
was  just  .before  this  storm,  they  brought  me  here  and  I  waited.  She 
never  came  back.  Master  Gerald  was  sickly  always  and  we  kept  him, 
but  they  sent  you  away.  Master  John  thought  it  was  best.  And  the 
years  have  passed  quickly." 

"And  General  Evan — did  he  never  know?" 

"No,  sir;  I  would  not  let  them  take  Master  Gerald,  because  I  be 
lieved  he  was  my  child;  and  Master  John,  I  suppose,  would  not  be 
lieve  in  you.  The  families  are  proud ;  we  let  things  rest  as  they  were, 
thinking  Miss  Marion  would  come  back  some  day.  But  she  will  not 
come  now;  she  will  not  come!" 

The  miserable  secret  was  out.  After  a  long  silence  Edward  lifted 
his  head  and  said  with  deep  emotion:  "Then,  in  your  opinion,  I  am 


58  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

your  son?"     She  looked  at  him  sadly  and  nodded. 

"And  in  the  opinion  of  John  Morgan,  Gerald  is  the  son  of  Marion 
Evans?1'  She  bowed. 

"We  have  let  it  stand  that  way.  But  you  should  never  have  known  1 
I  do  not  think  you  were  ever  to  have  known."  The  painful  silence 
that  followed  was  broken  by  his  question: 

"Gerald's  real  name?" 

"I  do  not  know!  I  do  not  know!  All  that  I  do  know  I  have  told 
you!" 

"And  the  child's  coffin ?'»    She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"It  was  a  dream;  I  do  not  know!" 

He  gazed  upon  her  with  profound  emotion  and  pity. 

"You  must  be  tired,"  he  said,  gently.  "Think  no  more  of  these 
troubles  to-night." 

She  turned  and  went  away.  He  followed  to  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  waited  until  he  heard  her  step  in  the  hall  below. 

"Good-night,"  he  had  said,  gravely.  And  from  the  shadowy  depths 
below  came  back  a  faint,  mournful  echo  of  the  word. 

When  Edward  returned  to  the  room  he  sat  by  the  window  and 
buried  his  face  upon  his  arm.  Hour  after  hour  passed;  the  outer 
world  slept.  Had  he  been  of  the  south,  reared  there  and  a  sharer  in 
its  traditions,  the  secret  would  have  died  with  him  that  night  and 
its  passing  would  have  been  signaled  by  a  single  pistol  shot.  But  he 
was  not  of  the  south,  in  experience,  association  or  education. 

It  was  in  the  hush  of  midnight  that  he  rose  from  his  seat,  took  the 
picture  and  descended  the  steps.  The  wing- room  was  never  locked; 
he  entered.  Through  the  drawn  curtains  of  the  glass-room  he  saw  the 
form  of  Gerald  lying  in  the  moonlight  upon  his  narrow  bed.  Plac 
ing  the  picture  beside  the  still,  white  face  of  the  sleeper,  he  was 
shocked  by  the  likeness.  One  glance  was  enough.  He  went  back  to 
his  window  again. 

One,  two,  three,  four  o'clock  from  the  distant  church  steeple- 
How  the  solemn  numbers  have  tolled  above  the  sorrow-folds  of  the 
human  heart  and  echoed  in  the  dewless  valleys  of  the  mind,  the 
depths  to  which  we  sink  when  hope  is  gone! 

But  with  the  dawn  what  shadows  flee! 

So  came  the  dawn  at  last;  the  pale,  tremulous  glimmer  on  the  east 
ern  hills,  the  white  light,  the  rosy  flush  and  then  in  the  splendor  of 
fading  mists  the  giant  sun  rolled  up  the  sky. 

A  man  stood  pale  and  weary  before  the  open  window  at  Ilexhurst. 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  SUNSET  59 

"The  odds  are  against  me,''  he  said,  grimly,  "but  I  feel  a  power  within 
me  stronger  than  evidence.  I  will  match  it  against  the  word  of  this 
woman,  though  every  circumstance  strengthened  that  word.  The 
voice  of  the  Caucasian,  not  the  voice  of  Ethiopia,  speaks  within  me! 
The  woman  does  not  believe  herself;  the  mother's  instinct  has  been 
baffled,  but  not  destroyed!" 

And  yet  again,  Ihe  patrician  bearing,  the  aristocrat!  Such  was 
Gerald. 

"We  shall  see,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "Wait  until  Virdow 
comes!" 

Nevertheless,  when,  not  having  slept,  he  arose  late  in  the  day,  he 
was  almost  overwhelmed  with  the  memory  of  the  revelation  made  to 
him,  and  the  effect  it  must  have  upon  his  future. 

At  that  moment  there  came  into  his  mind  the  face  of  Mary. 


CHAPTER    XI. 
IN  THE  CRIMSON  OF  SUNSET. 

Edward  left  the  house  without  any  definite  idea  of  how  he  would 
carry  on  the  search  for  the  truth  of  his  own  history,  but  his  deter 
mination  was  complete.  He  did  not  enter  the  dining-room,  but  called 
for  his  buggy  and  drove  direct  to  the  city.  He  wished  to  see  neither 
Rita  nor  Gerald  until  the  tumult  within  him  had  been  stilled.  His 
mind  was  yet  in  a  whirl  when  without  previous  resolution  he  turned 
hig  horse  in  the  direction  of  "The  Hall"  and  let  it  choose  its  gait.  The 
sun  was  low  when  he  drew  up  before  the  white-columned  house  and 
entered  the  yard.  Mary  stood  in  the  doorway  and  smiled  a  welcome, 
but  as  he  approached  she  looked  into  his  face  in  alarm. 

"You  have  been  ill?"  she  said,  with  quick  sympathy. 

"Do  I  look  it?''  he  asked;  "I  have  not  slept  well.  Perhaps  that 
shows  upon  me.  It  is  rather  dreary  work  this  getting  acquainted." 
HP  tried  to  deceive  her  with  a  smile. 

"How  ungallant!"  she  exclaimed,  "to  say  that  to  me,  and  so  soon 
after  we  have  become  acquainted." 

"We  are  old  acquaintances,  Miss  Montjoy,"  he  replied  with  more 
earnestness  than  the  occasion  justified.  "I  knew  you  in  Paris,  in 


60  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Rome,  even  in  India — I  have  known  you  always."  She  blushed  slightly 
and  turned  her  face  away  as  a  lady  appeared  leading  a  little  girl. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Morgan,  Annie;  you  met  him  for  a  moment  only,  I 
believe." 

The  newcomer  extended  her  hand  languidly. 

"Any  one  whom  Norton  is  so  enthusiastic  about,"  she  said,  without 
warmth,  "must  be  worth  meeting  a  second  time." 

Her  small  eyes  rested  upon  the  visitor  an  instant.  Stunned  as  he 
had  been  by  large  misfortunes,  he  felt  again  the  unpleasant  impres 
sion  of  their  first  meeting.  Whether  it  was  the  manner,  the  tone  of 
voice,  the  glance  or  languid  hand  that  slipped  limply  from  his  own, 
or  all  combined,  he  did  not  know;  he  did  not  care  much  at  that  time. 
The  young  woman  placed  the  freed  hand  over  the  mouth  of  the  child 
begging  for  a  biscuit,  and  without  looking  down  said: 

"Mary,  get  this  brat  a  biscuit,  please.  She  will  drive  me  distracted." 
Mary  stooped  and  the  Duchess  leaped  into  her  arms,  happy  at  once. 
Edward  followed  them  with  his  eyes  until  they  reached  the  end  of 
the  porch  and  Mary  turned  a  moment  to  receive  additional  directions 
from  the  young  mother.  He  knew,  then,  where  he  had  first  seen  her. 
She  was  a  little  madonna  in  a  roadside  shrine  in  Sicily,  distinct  and 
different  from  all  the  madonnas  of  his  acquaintance,  in  that  she  seemed 
to  have  stepped  up  direct  from  among  the  people  who  knelt  there;  a 
motherly  little  woman  in  touch  with  every  home  nestling  in  those 
hills.  The  young  mother  by  him  was  watching  him  with  curiosity. 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  beautiful  picture,"  he  said. 

"You  are  an  artist,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  a  dilletante.  But  the  picture  of  a  woman  with  her  child  in 
her  arms  appeals  to  most  men;  to  none  more  than  those  who  never 
knew  a  mother  nor  had  a  home."  He  stopped  suddenly,  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  face  and  brain,  and  he  came  near  staggering.  He  had 
forgotten  for  the  moment. 

He  recovered,  to  find  the  keen  eyes  of  the  woman  studying  him  in 
tently.  Did  she  know,  did  she  suspect?  How  this  question  would 
recur  to  him  in  all  the  years!  He  turned  from  her,  pale  and  angry. 
Fortunately,  Mary  returned  at  this  moment,  the  little  one  con 
tentedly  munching  upon  its  biscuit.  The  elder  Mrs.  Montjoy  welcomed 
him  with  her  motherly  way,  inquiring  closely  into  his  arrangements 
for  comfort  out  at  Ilexhurst.  Who  was  caring  for  him?  Rita!  Well, 
that  was  fortunate;  Rita  was  a  good  cook  and  good  housekeeper,  and 
a  good  nurse.  He  affected  a  careless  interest  and  she  continued : 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  SUNSET  61 

"Yes,  Rita  lived  for  years  near  here.  She  was  a  free  woman  and 
as  a  professional  nurse  accumulated  quite  a  sum  of  money,  and  then 
her  husband  dying,  John  Morgan  had  taken  her  to  his  house  to  look 
after  a  young  relative  who  had  been  left  to  his  care.  What  has  be 
come  of  this  young  person?"  she  asked.  "I  have  not  heard  of  him  for 
many  years.'' 

"He  is  still  there,"  said  Edward,  briefly. 

And  then,  as  they  were  silent,  he  continued:  "This  woman  Rita 
had  a  husband;  how  did  they  manage  in  old  times?  Was  he  free  also? 
You  see,  since  I  have  become  a  citizen  your  institutions  have  a  deal 
of  interest  for  me.  It  must  have  been  inconvenient  to  be  free  and 
have  someone  else  owning  the  husband." 

He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  effort;  he  could  not  restrain  an  in 
clination  to  look  toward  the  younger  Mrs.  Montjoy.  She  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  with  eyes  half-closed,  and  smiling  upon  him.  He 
could  have  strangled  her  cheerfully.  The  elder  lady's  voice  recalled 
him. 

"Her  husband  was  free  also;  that  is,  it  was  thought  that  she  had 
bought  him,"  and  she  smiled  over  the  idea. 

A  slanting  sunbeam  came  through  the  window;  they  were  now  in 
the  sitting-room  and  Mary  quickly  adjusted  the  shade  to  shield  her 
mother's  face. 

"Mamma  is  still  having  trouble  with  her  eyes,"  she  said;  "we  cannot 
afford  to  let  her  strain  the  sound  one." 

"My  eyes  do  pain  me  a  great  deal,"  the  elder  Mrs.  Montjoy  said. 
"Did  you  ever  have  neuralgia,  Mr.  Morgan?  Sometimes  I  think  it 
it  neuralgia.  I  must  have  Dr.  Campbell  down  to  look  at  my  eyes-  I 
am  af  riad "  she  did  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  the  quick  sympa 
thy  of  the  man  helped  him  to  read  her  silence  aright.  Mary  caught 
her  breath  nervously. 

"Mary,  take  me  to  my  room;  I  think  I  will  lie  down  until  tea.  Mr. 
Morgan  will  be  glad  to  walk  some,  I  am  sure;  take  him  down  to  the 
mill."  She  gave  that  gentleman  her  hand  again;  a  hand  that  seemed 
to  him  eloquent  with  gentleness.  "Good-night,  if  I  do  not  see  you 
again,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  go  to  the  table  now  on  account  of  the  lamp." 
He  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat  and  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  throw 
himself  upon  her  sympathy-  She  would  understand.  But  the  next 
instant  the  idea  of  such  a  thing  filled  him  with  horror.  It  would 
banish  him  forever  from  the  portals  of  that  proud  home. 

And  ought  he  not  to  banish  himself?     He  trembled  over  the  mental 


62  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

question.  No!  His  courage  returned.  There  had  been  some  horrible 
mistake!  Not  until  the  light  of  day  shone  on  the  indisputable  fact, 
not  until  proof  irresistible  had  said:  "You  are  base-born!  Depart!" 
When  that  hour  came  he  would  depart!  He  saw  Mary  waiting  for 
him  at  the  door;  the  young  mother  was  still  watching  him,  he  thought. 
He  bowed  and  strode  from  the  room. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  girl,  quickly;  "you  seem  excited.*'  She  wa» 
already  learning  to  read  him. 

"Do  I?  Well,  let  me  see;  I  am  not  accustomed  to  ladies'  society," 
he  said,  lightly;  "so  much  beauty  and  graciousness  have  overwhelmed 
me."  He  was  outside  now  and  the  fresh  breeze  steadied  him  instantly. 

There  was  a  sun-setting  before  them  that  lent  a  glow  to  the  girl's 
face  and  a  new  light  to  her  eyes.  He  saw  it  there  first  and  then  in 
the  skies.  Across  a  gentle  slope  of  land  that  came  down  from  a  mile 
away  on  the  opposite  side  into  their  valley  the  sun  had  gone  behind 
a  shower.  Out  on  one  side  a  fiery  cloud  floated  like  a  ship  afire,  and 
behind  it  were  the  lilac  highlands  of  the  sky.  The  scene  brought  with 
it  a  strange  solemnity.  It  held  the  last  breath  of  the  dying  day. 

The  man  and  girl  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  contemplating  the 
wonderful  vision.  She  looked  into  his  face  presently  to  find  him  sadly 
and  intently  watching  her.  Wondering,  she  led  the  way  downhill  to 
where  a  little  boat  lay  with  its  bow  upon  the  grassy  sward  which  ran 
into  the  water.  Taking  one  seat,  she  motioned  him  to  the  other. 

"We  have  given  you  a  Venetian  water-color  sunset,"  she  said,  smil 
ing  away  her  embarrassment,  "and  now  for  a  gondola  ride."  Lightly 
and  skillfully  plying  the  paddle  the  little  craft  glided  out  upon  the 
lake,  and  presently,  poising  the  blade  she  said,  gayly: 

"Look  down  into  the  reflection,  and  then  look  up!  Tell  me,  do  you 
float  upon  the  lake  or  in  the  cloudy  regions  of  heaven?''  He  followed 
her  directions.  Then,  looking  steadily  at  her,  he  said,  gently: 

"In  heaven!"  She  bent  over  the  boat  side  until  her  face  was  con 
cealed,  letting  her  hand  cool  in  the  crimson  water. 

"Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said  after  awhile,  looking  up  from)  under  her 
lashes,  "are  you  a  very  earnest  man?  I  do  not  think  I  know  just  how 
to  take  you.  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  matter-of-fact." 

He  was  feverish  and  still  weighed  down  by  his  terrible  memory. 
"I  am  earnest  now,  whatever  I  may  have  been,"  he  said,  softly,  "and 
believe  me,  Miss  Montjoy,  something  tells  me  that  I  will  never  be  less 
than  earnest  with  you." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  looked  off  into  the  cloudlands. 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  SUNSET  63 

"You  have  traveled  much?"  she  said  at  length,  to  break  the  awkward 
silence. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  have  never  had  what  I  could  call  a  home  and  I 
have  moved  about  a  great  deal.  Men  of  my  acquaintance,"  he  contin 
ued,  musingly,  "have  been  ambitious  in  every  line;  I  have  watched 
them  in  wonder.  Most  of  them  sacrifice  what  would  have  been  my 
greatest  pleasure  to  possess — mother  and  sister  and  home.  I  cannot 
understand  that  phase  of  life;  I  suppose  I  never  will." 

"Then  you  have  never  known  a  mother?" 

"Never-"    There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  touched  her  deeply. 

"To  miss  a  mother's  affection,"  she  said,  with  a  holy  light  in  her 
brown  eyes,  "is  to  miss  the  greatest  gift  heaven  can  bestow  here.  I 
suppose  a  wife  somehow  takees  a  mother's  place,  finally,  with  every 
man,  but  she  cannot  fill  it.  No  woman  that  ever  lived  can  fill  my 
mother's  place." 

Loyal  little  Mary!  He  fancied  that  as  she  thought  upon  her  own 
remark  her  sensitive  lips  curved  slightly.  His  mind  reverted  to  the 
sinister  face  that  they  had  left  in  the  parlor. 

"Your,  mother!"  he  exclaimed,  fervently;  "would  to  heaven  I  had 
such  a  mother!"  He  paused,  overcome  with  emotion.  She  looked 
upon  him  with  swimming  eyes. 

"You  must  come  often,  then,"  she  said,  softly,  "and  be  much  with 
us.  I  will  share  her  with  you.  Poor  mamma!  I  am  afraid — I  am 
afraid  for  her!"  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  suddenly  and 
bowed  her  head. 

"Is  she  ill,  so  ill  as  all  that?"  he  asked,  greatly  concerned. 

"Oh,  no!  That  is,  her  eyesight  is  failing;  she  does  not  realize  it, 
but  Dr.  Campbell  has  warned  us  to  be  careful." 

"What  is  the  trouble?"     He  was  now  deeply  distressed. 

"Glaucoma.  The  little  nerve  that  leads  from  the  cornea  to  the  brain 

finally  dies  away ;  there  is  no  connection,  and  then "  she  could  not 

conclude  the  sentence. 

Edward  had  never  before  been  brought  within  the  influence  of  such 
a  circle.  Her  words  thrilled  him  beyond  expression.  He  waited  a 
little  while  and  said: 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  my  short  experience  here  has  been  to 
me.  The  little  touch  of  motherly  interest,  of  home,  has  brought  me 
more  genuine  pleasure  than  I  thought  the  world  held  for  me.  You 
said  just  now  that  you  would  share  the  dear  little  mamma  with  me. 
J  acceot  the  generous  offer.  And  now  you  must  share  the  care  of  the 


64  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

little  mamma  with  me.  Do  not  be  offended,  but  I  know  that  the  war 
has  upset  your  revenues  here  in  the  south,  and  that  the  new  order  of 
business  has  not  reached  a  paying  basis.  By  no  act  of  mine  I  am  in 
dependent;  I  have  few  responsibilities.  Why  may  not  I,  why  may  not 
you  and  I  take  the  little  mamma  to  Paris  and  let  the  best  skill  in  the 
world  be  invoked  to  save  her  from  sorrow?"  He,  too,  would  not,  after 
her  failure,  say  "blindness." 

She  looked  at  him  through  tears  that  threatened  to  get  beyond 
control,  afraid  to  trust  her  voice. 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  he  said,  gently.    She  shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot.  I  can  never  answer  you  as  I  would.  But  it  cannot  be, 
it  cannot  be !  If  that  course  were  necessary,  we  would  have  gone  long 
ago,  for,  while  we  are  poor,  Norton  could  have  arranged  it — he  can 
can  arrange  anything.  But  Dr.  Campbell,  you  know,  is  famous  for 
his  skill.  He  has  even  been  called  to  Europe  in  consulation.  He  says 
there  is  no  cure,  but  care  of  the  general  health  may  avert  the  blow  all 
her  life.  And  so  we  watch  and  wait." 

"Still,"  he  urged,  "there  may  be  a  mistake.    And  the  sea  voyage " 

She  shook  her  head.    "You  are  very,  very  kind,  but  it  cannot  be.'' 

It  flashed  over  Edward  then  what  that  journey  would  have  been. 
He,  with  that  sweet-faced  girl,  the  little  madonna  of  his  memory,  and 
the  patient  mother!  In  his  mind  came  back  all  the  old  familiar  places; 
by  his  side  stood  this  girl,  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  her  eyes  upturned 
to  his. 

And  why  not!  A  thrill  ran  through  his  heart:  he  could  take  his 
wife  and  her  mother  to  Paris!  He  started  violently  and  leaned  for 
ward  in  the  boat,  his  glowing  face  turned  full  upon  her,  with  an  ex 
pression  in  it  that  startled  her. 

Then  from  it  the  color  died  away;  a  ghastly  look  overspread  it. 
He  murmured  aloud: 

"God  be  merciful!    It  cannot  be."    She  smiled  pitifully. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  cannot  be.  But  God  is  merciful.  We  trust  Him. 
He  will  order  all  things  for  the  best!"  Seeing  his  agitation  she  con 
tinued:  "Don't  let  it  distress  you  so,  Mr.  Morgan.  It  may  all  come 
out  happily.  See,  the  skies  are  quite  clear  now;  the  clouds  all  gone! 
I  take  it  as  a  happy  augury!" 

Ashamed  to  profit  by  her  reading  of  his  feelings,  he  made  a  des 
perate  effort  to  respond  to  her  new  mood.  She  saw  the  struggle  and 
aided  him.  But  in  that  hour  the  heart  of  Mary  Montjoy  went  out 
for  all  eternity  to  the  man  before  her.  Change,  disaster,  calumny, 


65 


misfortune,  would  never  shake  her  faith  and  belief  in  him.  He  had 
lost  in  the  struggle  of  the  preceding  night,  but  here  he  had  won  that 
which  death  only  could  end,  and  perhaps  not  death. 

Slowly  they  ascended  the  hill  together,  both  silent  and  thoughtful. 
He  took  her  little  hand  to  help  her  up  the  terraces,  and,  forgetting, 
held  it  until,  at  the  gate,  she  suddenly  withdrew  it  in  confusion  and 
gazed  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

The  tall,  soldierly  form  of  the  colonel,  her  father,  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  steps. 

"See,"  said  Edward,  to  relieve  her  confusion,  "one  of  the  old  knights 
guarding  the  castle!'' 

And  then  she  called  out,  gayly: 

"Sir  knight,  I  bring  you  a  prisoner."  The  old  gentleman  laughed 
and  entered  into  the  pleasantry. 

"Well,  he  might  have  surrendered  to  a  less  fair  captor!  Enter, 
prisoner,  and  proclaim  your  colors,"  Edward  started,  but  recovered, 
and,  looking  up  boldly,  said: 

"An  honorable  knight  errant,  but  unknown  until  his  vow  is  fulfilled." 
They  both  applauded  and  the  supper  bell  rang. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  OLD  SOUTH  VERSUS  THE  NEW. 

Edward  had  intended  returning  to  Ilexhurst  after  tea,  but  every 
one  inveighed  against  the  announcement.  Nonsense!  The  roads 
were  bad,  a  storm  was  possible,  the  way  unfamiliar  to  him!  John, 
the  stable  boy,  had  reported  a  shoe  lost  from  the  horse !  And  besides, 
Norton  would  come  out  and  be  disappointed  at  having  missed  him! 
And  why  go?  Was  the  room  upstairs  not  comfortable?  He  should 
have  another!  Was  the  breakfast  hour  too  early?  His  breakfast 
should  be  sent  to  his  room! 

Edward  was  in  confusion.  It  was  his  first  collision  with  the  genuine, 
unanswerable  southern  hospitality  that  survives  the  wreck  of  all 
things.  He  hesitated  and  explained  and  explaining  yielded. 

Supper  over,  the  two  gentlemen  sat  upon  the  veranda,  a  cool  breeze 


66  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

wandering  in  from  the  western  rain  area  and  rendering  the  evening 
comfortable.  Mary  brought  a  great  jar  of  delicious  tobacco,  home 
raised,  and  a  dozen  corn-cob  pipes,  and  was  soon  happy  in  their  evi 
dent  comfort.  As  she  held  the  lighter  over  Edward's  pipe  he  ven- 
turned  one  glance  upward  into  her  face,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  rare, 
mysterious  smile.  It  was  a  picture  that  clung  to  him  for  many  years; 
the  girlish  face  and  tender  brown  eyes  in  the  yellow  glare  of  the  flame, 
the  little  hand  lifted  in  his  service.  It  was  the  last  view  of  her 
that  night,  for  the  southern  girl,  out  of  the  cities,  is  an  early  retirer. 

"The  situation  is  somewhat  strained,"  said  the  colonel;  they  had 
reached  politics;  "there  is  a  younger  set  coming  on  who  seem  to  de 
sire  only  to  destroy  the  old  order  of  things.  They  have  had  the  'new 
south'  dinged  into  their  ears  until  they  had  come  to  believe  that  the 
old  south  holds  nothing  worth  retaining.  They  are  full  of  railroad 
schemes  to  rob  the  people  and  make  highways  for  tramps;  of  new 
towns  and  booms,  of  colonization  schemes,  to  bring  paupers  into  the 
state  and  inject  the  socialistic  element  of  which  the  north  and  west 
are  heartily  tired.  They  want  to  do  away  with  cotton  and  plant  the 
land  in  peaches,  plums,  grapes,"  here  he  laughed  softly,  "and  they 
want  to  give  the  nigger  a  wheeled  plow  to  ride  on.  It  looks  as  if  the 
whole  newspaper  fraternity  have  gone  crazy  upon  what  they  call  in 
tensive  and  diversified  farming.  Not  one  of  them  has  ever  told  me 
what  there  is  besides  cotton  that  can  be  planted  and  will  sell  at  all 
times  upon  the  market  and  pay  labor  and  store  accounts  in  the  fall. 

"And  now  they  have  started  in  this  country  the  'no-fence'  idea  and 
are  about  to  destroy  our  cattle  ranges,"  continued  the  colonel,  excitedly. 
"In  addition  to  these,  the  farmers  have  some  of  them  been  led  off 
into  a  'populist'  scheme,  which  in  its  last  analysis  means  that  the 
government  shall  destroy  corporations  and  pension  farmers.  In  nat 
ional  politics  we  have,  besides,  the  silver  question  and  the  tariff,  and 
a  large  element  in  the  state  is  ready  for  republicanism!" 

"That  is  the  party  of  the  north,  I  believe,"  said  Edward. 

"Yes,  the  party  that  freed  the  negro  and  placed  the  ballot  in  hi» 
hands.  We  are  so  situated  here  that  practically  our  whole  issue  is 
'white  against  black.'  We  cannot  afford  to  split  on  any  question.  We 
are  obliged  to  keep  the  south  solid  even  at  the  expense  of  development 
and  prosperity.  The  south  holds  the  Saxon  blood  in  trust.  Regard 
less  of  law,  of  constitution,  of  both  combined,  we  say  it  is  her  duty 
to  keep  the  blood  of  the  race  pure  and  uncontaminated.  I  am  not  pre 
pared  to  say  that  it  has  been  done  with  entire  success ;  two  races  can- 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  VERSUS  THE  NEW         67 

not  exist  side  by  side  distinct.  But  the  Spaniards  kept  their  blue 
blood  through  centuries! 

"The  southern  families  will  always  be  pure  in  this  respect;  they 
are  tenderly  guarded,"  the  colonel  went  on.  "Other  sections  are  in 
danger.  The  white  negro  goes  away  or  is  sent  away;  he  is  unknown; 
he  is  changed  and  finds  a  foothold  somewhere.  Then  some  day  a 
family  finds  in  its  folds  a  child  with  a  dark  streak  down  its  spine — 
have  you  dropped  your  pipe?  The  cobs  really  furnish  our  best  smokers, 
but  they  are  hard  to  manage.  Try  another — and  it  was  known  that 
somewhere  back  in  the  past  an  African  taint  has  crept  in." 

"You  astound  me,"  said  Edward,  huskily;  "is  that  an  infallible  s;.gn?" 

"Infallible,  or,  rather,  indisputable  if  it  exists.  But  its  existence 
under  all  circumstances  is  not  assured." 

"And  what,  Mr.  Montjoy,  is  the  issue  between  you  and  Mr.  Swear- 
ingen — I  understand  that  is  his  name — your  opponent  in  the  campaign 
for  nomination?" 

"Well,  it  is  hard  to  say.  He  has  been  in  congress  several  terms 
and  thinks  now  he  sees  a  change  of  sentiment.  He  has  made  bids  for 
the  younger  and  dissatisfied  vote.  I  think  you  may  call  it  the  old 
south  versus  the  new — and  I  stand  for  the  old  south.'' 

"Where  does  your  campaign  open?  I  was  in  England  once  during 
a  political  campaign,  about  my  only  experience,  if  you  except  one  or 
two  incipient  riots  in  Paris,  and  I  would  be  glad  to  see  a.  campaign, 
in  Georgia." 

"We  open  in  Bingham.  I  am  to  speak  there  day  after  to-morrow 
and  will  be  pleased  to  have  you  go  with  us.  A  little  party  will  pro 
ceed  by  private  conveyance  from  here — and  Norton  is  probably  de 
tained  in  town  to-night  by  this  matter.  The  county  convention 
meets  that  day  and  it  has  been  agreed  that  Swearingen  and  I  shall 
speak  in  the  morning.  The  convention  will  assemble  at  noon  and 
make  a  nomination.  In  most  counties  primary  elections  are  held." 

"I  shall  probably  not  be  able  to  go,  but  this  county  will  afford  me 
the  opportunity  I  desire.  By  the  way,  colonel,  your  friends  will  have 
many  expenses  in  this  campaign,  will  they  not?  I  trust  you  will 
number  me  among  them  and  not  hesitate  to  call  upon  me  for  my  share 
of  the  necessary  fund.  I  am  a  stranger,  so  to  speak,  but  I  represent 
John  Morgan  until  I  can  get  my  political  bearings  accurately  adjusted." 
The  colonel  was  charmed. 

"Spoken  like  John  himself!"  he  said.  "We  are  proud,  sir,  to  claim 
you  as  one  of  us.  As  to  the  expenses,  unfortunately,  we  have  to  rely 


68  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

on  our  friends.  But  for  the  war,  I  could  have  borne  it  all;  now  my 
circumstances  are  such  that  I  doubt  sometimes  if  I  should  in  perfect 
honor  have  accepted  a  nomination.  It  was  forced  on  rne,  however. 
My  friends  named  me,  published  the  announcement  and  adjourned. 
Before  heaven,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  it !  I  have  lived  here  since  child 
hood,  barring  a  term  or  two  in  congress  before  the  war  and  four  years 
with  Lee  and  Johnston,  and  my  people  were  here  before  me.  I  would 
be  glad  to  end  my  days  here  and  live  out  the  intervening  ones  in  sight 
of  this  porch.  But  a  man  owes  everything  to  his  country." 

Edward  did  not  comment  upon  the  information;  at  that  moment 
there  was  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels.  Norton,  accompanied  by  a 
stranger,  alighted  from  a  buggy  and  came  rapidly  up  the  walk.  The 
colonel  welcomed  his  son  with  the  usual  affection  and  the  stranger  was 
introduced  as  Mr.  Robley  of  an  adjoining  county.  The  men  fell  to 
talking  with  suppressed  excitement  over  the  political  situation  and 
the  climax  of  it  was  that  Robley,  a  keen  manager,  revealed  that  he 
had  come  for  $1,000  to  secure  the  county.  He  had  but  finished  his  in 
formation,  when  Norton  broke  in  hurriedly: 

"We  know,  father,  that  this  is  all  outside  your  style  of  politics,  and 
I  have  told  Mr.  Robley  that  we  cannot  go  into  any  bargain  and  sale 
schemes,  or  anything  that  looks  that  way.  We  will  pay  our  share  of 
legitimate  expenses,  printing,  bands,  refreshments  and  carriage  hire, 
and  will  not  inquire  too  closely  into  rates,  but  that  is  as  far " 

"You  are  right,  my  son!  If  I  am  nominated  it  must  be  upon  the 
ballots  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not  turn  a  hand  except  to  lessen  their 
necessary  expenses  and  to  put  our  announcements  before  the  public. 
I  am  sure  that  this  is  all  that  Mr.  Robley  would  consent  to." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  that  gentleman.  And  then  he  looked  helpless. 
Edward  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the  veranda,  ready  to  withdraw 
from  hearing  if  the  conversation  became  confidential.  Norton  was  ex 
citedly  explaining  the  condition  of  affairs  in  Robley's  county,  and  that 
gentleman  found  himself  at  leisure.  Passing  him  Edward  attracted 
his  attention. 

"You  smoke,  Mr.  Robley?"  He  offered  a  cigar  and  nodded  toward 
the  far  end  of  the  veranda.  "I  think  you  had  better  let  Mr.  Montjoy 
explain  matters  to  his  father,"  he  said.  Robley  joined  him. 

"How  much  do  you  need?"  said  Edward;  "the  outside  figure,  I 
mean.  In  other  words,  if  we  wanted  to  buy  the  county  and  be  certain 
of  getting  it,  how  much  would  it  take?'1 

"Twenty-five  hundred — well,  $3,000." 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY  69 

"Let  the  matter  drop  here,  you  understand?  Col.  Montjoy  is  not  In 
the  trade.  I  am  acting  upon  my  own  responsibility.  Call  on  me  in 
town  to-morrow;  I  will  put  up  the  money.  Now,  not  a  word.  We  will 
go  back."  They  strolled  forward  and  the  discussion  of  the  situation 
went  on.  Robley  grew  hopeful  and  as  they  parted  for  the  night 
whispered  a  few  words  to  Norton.  As  the  latter  carried  the  lamp  to 
Edward's  room,  he  said: 

"What  does  this  all  mean;  you  and  Robley " 

"Simply,"  said  Edward,  "that  I  am  in  my  first  political  campaign 
and  to  win  at  any  cost." 

Norton  looked  at  him  in  amazement  and  then  laughed  aloud. 

"You  roll  high!     We  shall  win  if  you  don't  fail  us." 

"Then  you  shall  win."  They  shook  hands  and  parted.  Norton 
passing  his  sister's  room,  paused  in  thought  knocked  lightly,  and  get 
ting  no  reply,  went  to  bed.  Edward  turned  in,  not  to  sleep.  His  mind 
in  the  silent  hours  rehearsed  its  horrors.  He  arose  at  the  sound  of 
the  first  bell  and  left  for  the  city,  not  waiting  for  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
FEELING  THE   ENEMY. 

Edward  Morgan  plunged  into  the  campaign  with  an  energy  and 
earnestness  that  charmed  the  younger  Montjoy  and  astonished  the 
elder.  Headquarters  were  opened,  typewriters  engaged,  lists  of  pro 
minent  men  and  party  leaders  obtained  and  letters  written.  Col. 
Montjoy  was  averse  to  writing  to  his  many  personal  friends  in  the 
district  anything  more  than  a  formal  announcement  of  his  candidacy 
over  his  own  signature. 

"That  is  all  right,  father,  but  if  you  intend  to  stick  to  that  idea 
the  way  to  avoid  defeat  is  to  come  down  now."  But  the  old  gentleman 
continued  to  use  his  own  form  of  letter.  It  read: 

"My  Dear  Sir:  I  beg  leave  to  call  your  attention  to  my  announce 
ment  in  the  Journal  of  this  city,  under  date  of  July  13,  wherein,  in 
response  to  the  demands  of  friends,  I  consented  to  the  use  of  my  name 
in  the  nomination  for  congressman  to  represent  this  district.  With 
great  respect,  I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servent, 

"Norton  L.  Montjoy." 


70  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

He  dictated  this  letter,  gave  the  list  to  the  typewriter,  and  announced 
that  when  the  letters  were  ready  he  would  sign  them.  The  son  looked 
at  him:  quizzically: 

"Don't  trouble  about  that,  father.  You  must  leave  this  office  work 
to  us.  I  can  sign  your  name  better  than  you  can.  If  you  will  get 
out  and  see  the  gentlemen  about  the  cotton  warehouses  you  can  help 
us  wonderfully.  You  can  handle  them  better  than  anybody  in  the 
world."  The  colonel  smiled  indulgently  on  his  son  and  went  off.  He 
was  proud  of  the  success  and  genius  of  his  one  boy,  when  not  grieved 
at  his  departure  from  the  old-school  dignity.  And  then  Norton  sat 
down  and  began  to  dictate  the  correspondence,  with  the  list  to  guide 
him. 

"Dear  Jim,''  he  began,  selecting  a  well-known  friend  of  his  father, 
and  a  companion  in  arms.  "You  have  probably  noticed  in  the  Jour 
nal  the  announcement  of  my  candidacy  for  the  congressional  nom 
ination.  The  boys  of  the  old  'Fire-Eaters'  did  eat.  I  am  counting 
on  you;  you  stood  by  me  at  Seven  Pines,  Fredericksburg,  Chancel- 
lorsville  and  a  dozen  other  tight  places,  and  I  have  no  fear  but  that 
your  old  colonel  will  find  you  with  him  in  this  issue.  It  is  the  old 
south  against  the  riffraff  combination  of  carpetbaggers,  scalawags 
and  jaybirds  who  are  trying  to  betray  us  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy ! 
My  opponent,  Swearingen,  is  a  good  man  in  his  way,  but  in  devilish 
bad  company.  See  Lamar  of  Company  C,  Sims,  Ellis,  Smith  and  all 
the  old  guard.  Tell  them  I  am  making  the  stand  of  my  life!  My 
best  respects  to  the  madam  and  the  grandchildren!  God  bless  you. 
Do  the  best  you  can.  Yours  fraternally,  "N.  L.  Montjoy." 

"P.  S.  Arrange  for  me  to  speak  at  your  court  house  some  day 
soon.  Get  an  early  convention  called.  We  fight  better  on  a  charge — 
old  Stonewall's  way.  "N.  L.  M." 

This  letter  brought  down  the  house;  the  house  in  this  instance 
standing  for  a  small  army  of  committeemen  gathered  at  headquarters. 
Norton  was  encouraged  to  try  again. 

"The  Rev.  Andrew  Paton,  D.  D. — Dear  Andrew:  I  am  out  for  con 
gress  and  need  you.  Of  course  we  can't  permit  you  to  take  your 
sacred  robes  into  the  mire  of  politics,  but,  Andrew,  we  were  boys  to 
gether,  before  you  were  so  famous,  and  I  know  that  nothing  I  can 
bring  myself  to  ask  of  you  can  be  refused.  A  wx>rd  from  you  in 
many  quarters  will  help.  The  madam  joins  me  in  regards  to  you  and 
yours.  Sincerely.  "N.  L.  Montjoy." 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY  71 

"P.  S.  Excuse  this  typewritten  letter,  but  my  hand  is  old,  and  I 
cannot  wield  the  pen  as  I  did  when  we  put  together  that  first  sermon 
of  yours.  "M." 

This  was  an  addendum  in  "the  colonel's  own  handwriting"  and  it 
closed  with  "pray  for  me."  The  letter  was  vociferously  applauded 
and  passers-by  looked  up  in  the  headquarters  windows  curiously. 
These  addenda  in  the  colonel's  own  handwriting  tickled  Norton's  fancy. 
He  played  upon  every  string  in  the  human  heart.  When  he  got  among 
the  masons  he  staggered  a  little,  but  managed  to  work  in  something 
about  "upright,  square  and  level."  "If  I  could  only  have  got  a  few 
signals  from  the  old  gentleman,"  he  said,  gayly,  "I  would  get  the 
lodges  out  in  a  body.'1 

Norton  was  everywhere  during  the  next  ten  days.  He  kept  four 
typewriters  busy  getting  out  "personal"  letters,  addressing  circulars 
and  marking  special  articles  that  had  appeared  in  the  papers.  One 
of  his  sayings  that  afterward  became  a  political  maxim  was:  "If  you 
want  the  people  to  help  you,  let  them  hear  from  you  before  election." 
And  in  this  instance  they  heard. 

Within  a  few  days  a  great  banner  was  stretched  across  the  street 
from  the  headquarters  window,  and  a  band  wagon,  drawn  by  four 
white  horses,  carried  a  brass  band  and  flags  bearing  the  legend: 
"Montjoy  at  the  Court  House 
Saturday  Night." 

Little  boys   distributed   dodgers. 

Edward,  taking  the  cue,  entered  with  equal  enthusiasm  into  the 
comedy.  He  wanted  to  do  the  right  thing,  and  he  had  formed  an  ex 
aggerated  idea  of  the  influence  of  money  in  political  campaigns.  He 
hung  a  placard  at  the  front  door  of  the  Montjoy  headquarters  that 
read: 

"One  thousand  dollars  to  five  hundred  that  Montjoy  is  nominated." 

He  placed  a  check  to  back  it  in  the  secretary's  hands.  This  an 
nouncement  drew  a  crowd  and  soon  afterward  a  quiet-appearing  man 
came  in  and  said: 

"I  have  the  money  to  cover  that  bet.     Name  a  stake-holder." 

One  was  named.  Edward  was  flushed  with  wine  and  enthused  by 
the  friendly  comments  his  bold  wager  had  drawn  out. 

"Make  it  $2,000  to  $1,000?''  he  asked  the  stranger. 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "it  goes." 

"Make  it  $10,000  to  $5,000?"  said  Edward. 


72  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"No!" 

"Ten  thousand  to  four  thousand?" 

"No!'' 

"Ten  thousand  to  three  thousand?" 

"No!"  The  stranger  smiled  nervously  and,  saluting,  withdrew. 
The  crowd  cheered  until  the  sidewalk  was  blockaded.  The  news  went 
abroad:  "Odds  of  300  to  100  have  been  offered  on  Montjoy,  and  no 
takers." 

Edward's  bet  had  the  effect  of  precipitating  the  campaign  in  the 
home  county ;  it  had  been  opening  slowly,  despite  the  rush  at  the  Mont- 
joy  headquarters.  The  Swearingen  men  were  experienced  campaigners 
and  worked  more  by  quiet  organization  than  display.  Such  men 
know  when  to  make  the  great  stroke  in  a  campaign.  The  man  who 
had  attempted  to  call  young  Morgan's  hand  had  little  to  do  with 
the  management  of  the  Swearingen  campaign,  but  was  engaged  in  a 
speculation  of  his  own,  acting  upon  a  hint. 

But  the  show  of  strength  at  the  Montjoy  headquarters  was  at  once 
used  by  the  Swearingen  men  to  stir  their  friends  to  action,  lest  they 
be  bluffed  out  of  the  fight.  Rival  bands  were  got  out,  rival  placards 
appeared  and  handbills  were  thrown  into  every  yard. 

And  then  came  the  first  personalities,  but  directed  at  Edward  only. 
An  evening  paper  said  that  "A  late  citizen,  after  half  a  century  of 
honorable  service,  and  although  but  recently  deceased,  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  betting  upon  mundane  elections  by  proxy."  And  elsewhere : 
"A  certain  class  of  people  and  their  uncle's  money  are  soon  divorced." 
Many  others  followed  upon  the  same  line,  clearly  indicating  Edward 
Morgan,  and  with  street-corner  talk  soon  made  him  a  central  figure 
among  the  Montjoy  forces.  Edward  saw  none  of  these  paragraphs, 
nor  did  he  hear  the  gossip  of  the  city. 

This  continued  for  days;  in  the  meantime  Edward  took  Norton  home 
with  him  at  night  and  generally  one  or  two  others  accompanied  them. 
Finally  it  came  to  be  settled  that  Norton  and  Edward  were  old  friends, 
and  the  friends  of  Montjoy  senior  looked  on  and  smiled. 

The  other  side  simply  sneered,  swore  and  waited. 

Information  of  these  things  reached  Mary  Montjoy.  Annie,  the 
sister-in-law,  came  into  the  city  and  met  her  cousin,  Amos  Royson, 
the  wild  horseman  who  collided  with  the  Montjoy  team  upon  the 
night  of  Edward's  first  appearance.  This  man  was  one  of  the  Swear 
ingen  managers.  His  relationship  to  Annie  Montjoy  gave  him  entrance 


FEELING  THE   ENEMY  73 

to  the  family  circle,  and  he  had  been  for  two  years  a  suitor  for  Mary's 
hand. 

Royson  took  a  seat  in  the  vehicle  beside  his  cousin  and  turned  the 
horse's  head  toward  the  park.  Annie  Montjoy  saw  that  he  was  in 
an  ugly  mood,  and  divined  the  reason.  She  possessed  to  a  remark 
able  degree  the  power  of  mind-reading  and  she  knew  Amos  Royson 
better  than  he  knew  himself. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Edward  Morgan,  who  is  making  such  a  fool 
of  himself,"  he  said  abruptly.  "He  is  injuring  Col.  Montjoy's  chances 
more  than  we  could  ever  hope  to,  and  is  really  the  best  ally  we  have!" 

She  smiled  as  she  looked  upon  him  from  under  the  sleepy  lids. 
"Why,  then,  are  you  not  pleased?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  Annie,  the  unfortunate  fact  remains  that  you 
are  one  of  the  family.  I  hate  to  see  you  mixed  up  in  this  matter  and 
a  sharer  in  the  family's  downfall.'' 

"You  do  not  think  enough  of  me  to  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"I  cannot  control  the  election,  Annie.  Swearingen  will  be  elected 
with  or  without  my  help.  But  you  know  my  whole  future  depends 
upon  Swearingen.  Who  is  Edward  Morgan?" 

"Oh,  Edward  Morgan !  Well,  you  know,  he  is  old  John  Morgan's 
heir,  and  that  is  all  I  know;  but,"  and  she  laughed  maliciously,  "he 
is  what  Norton  calls  'a  rusher,'  not  only  in  politics,  but  elsewhere.  He 
has  seen  Mary,  and — now  you  know  why  he  is  so  much  interested  in 
this  election."  Amos  turned  fiercely  upon  her  and  involuntarily  drew 
the  reins  uptil  the  horse  stopped.  He  felt  the  innuendo  and  forgot 
the  thrust. 

"You  cannot  mean ''  he  began,  and  then  paused,  for  in  her  eyes 

was  a  triumph  so  devilish,  so  malicious,  that  even  he,  knowing  her 
well,  could  not  bring  himself  to  gratify  it.  He  knew  that  she  had 
never  forgiven  him  for  his  devotion  to  Mary. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it!  If  ever  two  people  were  suddenly,  hopelessly, 
foolishly  infatuated  with  each  other  that  same  little  hypocritical  chit 
and  this  stranger  are  the  two.  He  is  simply  trying  to  put  his  intended 
father-in-law  into  congress.  Do  you  understand?" 

The  man's  face  was  white  and  only  with  difficulty  could  he  guide  the 
animal  he  was  driving.  She  continued,  with  a  sudden  exhibition  of 
passion:  "And  Mary!  Oh,  you  should  just  hear  her  say  'Ilexhurst'! 
She  will  queen  it  out  there  with  old  Morgan's  money  and  heir,  and 

we "she  laughed  bitterly,  "we  will  stay  out  yonder,  keep  a  mule 

boarding  house  and  nurse  sick  niggers — that  is  all  it  amounts  to; 


74  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

they  raise  corn  half  the  year  and  hire  hands  to  feed  it  out  the  other 
half;  and  the  warehouses  get  the  cotton.  In  the  meantime,  I  am  stuck 
away  out  of  sight  with  my  children!"  Roy  son  thought  over  this 
outburst  and  then  said  gravely: 

"You  have  not  yet  answered  my  question.  Who  is  Edward  Mor 
gan — where  did  he  come  from?" 

"Go  ask  John  Morgan,''  she  said,  scornfully  and  maliciously.  He 
studied  long  the  painted  dashboard  in  front  of  him,  and  then,  in  a 
sort  of  awe,  looked  into  her  face: 

"What  do  you  mean,  Annie?"  She  would  not  turn  back;  she  met 
his  gaze  with  determination. 

"Old  Morgan  has  educated  and  maintained  him  abroad  all  his  life. 
He  has  never  spoken  of  him:  to  anybody.  You  know  what  stories  they 
used  to  tell  of  John  Morgan.  Can't  you  see?  Challenged  to  prove 
his  legal  right  to  his  name  he  couldn't  do  it."  The  words  were  out. 
The  jealous  woman  took  the  lines  from  his  hands  and  said,  sneeringly : 
"You  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Amos,  by  your  driving,  and  attract 
ing  attention.  Where  do  you  want  to  get  out?  I  am  going  back  up 
town."  He  did  not  reply.  Dazed  by  the  fearful  hint  he  sat  looking 
ahead.  When  she  drew  rein  at  a  convenient  corner  he  alighted.  There 
was  a  cruel  light  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"Annie,"  he  said,  "the  defeat  of  Col.  Montjoy  lies  in  your  informa 
tion.'' 

"Let  it,"  she  exclaimed,  recklessly.  "He  has  no  more  business  in 
congress  than  a  child.  And  for  the  other  matter,  I  have  myself  and 
my  children's  name  to  protect." 

And  yet  she  was  not  entirely  without  caution.    She  continued: 

"What  I  have  told  you  is  a  mere  hint.  It  must  not  come  back  to 
me  nor  get  in  print."  She  drove  away.  With  eyes  upon  the  ground 
Royson  walked  to  his  office. 

Amos  Royson  was  of  the  new  south  entirely,  but  not  its  best  repre 
sentative.  His  ambition  was  boundless;  there  was  nothing  he  would 
have  left  undone  to  advance  himself  politically.  His  thought  as  he 
walked  back  to  his  office  was  upon  the  words  of  his  cousin.  In  what 
manner  could  this  frightful  hint  be  made  effective  without  danger  of 
reaction?  At  this  moment  he  met  the  man  he  was  plotting  to  destroy, 
walking  rapidly  toward  the  postoffice  with  Norton  Montjoy.  The 
latter  saluted  him,  gayly,  as  he  passed: 

"Hello,  Amos!  We  have  you  on  the  run,  my  boy!"  Amos  made 
no  reply  to  Norton,  nor  to  Edward's  conventional  bow.  As  they  passed 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  ITS  SWORD  75 

he  noted  the  latter's  form  and  poetical  face,  then  somewhat  flushed 
with  excitement,  and  seemed  to  form  a  mental  estimate  of  him. 

"Cold-blooded  devil,  that  fellow  Roy  son,''  said  Norton,  as  he  ran 
over  his  letters  before  mailing  them;  "stick  a  knife  in  you  in  a  min- 
nute." 

But  Royson  walked  on.  Once  he  turned,  looked  back  and  smiled 
sardonically.  "They  are  both  in  a  bad  fix,"  he  said,  half-aloud.  "The 
man  who  has  to  look  out  for  Annie  is  to  be  pitied." 

At  home  Annie  gave  a  highly  colored  account  of  all  she  had  heard 
in  town  about  Edward,  made  up  chiefly  of  boasts  of  friends  who  sup 
posed  that  her  interest  in  Col.  Montjoy's  nomination  was  genuine,  of 
Norton's  report  and  the  sneers  of  enemies,  including  Royson.  These 
lost  nothing  in  the  way  of  color  at  her  hands.  Mary  sought  her  room 
and  after  efforts  sealed  for  Edward  this  letter: 

"You  can  never  know  how  grateful  we  all  are  for  your  interest 
and  help,  but  our  gratitude  would  be  incomplete  if  I  failed  to  tell 
you  that  there  is  danger  of  injuring  yourself  in  your  generous  en 
thusiasm.  You  must  not  forget  that  papa  has  enemies  who  will  become 
yours.  This  we  would  much  regret,  for  you  have  so  much  need  of 
friends.  Do  not  put  faith  in  too  many  people,  and  come  out  here 
when  you  feel  the  need  of  rest.  I  cannot  write  much  that  I  would 
like  to  tell  you.  Your  friend, 

"Mary  Montjoy." 

"P.  S.     Amos  Royson  is  your  enemy  and  he  is  a  dangerous  man." 

When  Edward  received  this,  as  he  did  next  day  by  the  hand  of  Col. 
Montjoy,  he  was  thrilled  with  pleasure  and  then  depressed  with  a 
sudden  memory.  That  day  he  was  so  reckless  that  even  Norton  felt 
compelled,  using  his  expression,  "to  call  him  down.*' 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  THE  SWORD. 

When  Royson  reached  his  office  he  quietly  locked  himself  in,  and, 
lighting  a  cigar,  threw  himself  into  his  easy-chair.  He  recalled  with 
carefulness  the  minutest  facts  of  his  interview  with  Annie  Mont 
joy,  from  the  moment  he  seated  himself  beside  her,  until  his  departure. 


76  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Having  established  these  in  mind  he  began  the  course  of  reasoning 
he  always  pursued  in  making  an  estimate  of  testimony.  The  basis 
of  his  cousin's  action  did  not  call  for  much  attention;  he  knew  her 
well.  She  was  as  ambitious  as  Lucifer  and  possessed  that  peculiar 
defect  which  would  explain  so  many  women  if  given  proper  recognition 
— lack  of  ability  to  concede  equal  merit  to  others.  They  can  admit 
no  uninvited  one  to  their  plane;  not  even  an  adviser.  They  demand 
flattery  as  a  plant  demands  nitrogen,  and  cannot  survive  the  loss 
of  attention. 

And,  reading  deeper,  Royson  saw  that  the  steadfast,  womanly  soul 
of  the  sister-in-law  had,  even  in  the  knowledge  of  his  cousin,  over 
shadowed  hers  until  she  resented  even  the  old  colonel's  punctilious 
courtesy;  that  in  her  heart  she  raged  at  his  lack  of  informality  and 
accused  him  of  resting  upon  the  young  girl.  If  she  had  been  made 
much  of,  set  up  as  a  divinity,  appealed  to  and  suffered  to  rule,  all 
would  have  been  fair  and  beautiful.  And  then  the  lawyer  smiled  and 
said  aloud  to  that  other  self,  with  whom  he  communed:  "For  a  while." 
Such  was  the  woman. 

Long  he  sat,  studying  the  situation.  Once  he  arose  and  paced  the 
floor,  beating  his  fist  into  his  hand  and  grinding  his  teeth. 

"Both  or  none!"  he  cried,  at  last.  "If  Montjoy  is  nominated  I  am 
shelved;  and  as  for  Mary,  there  have  been  Sabine  women  in  all  ages." 

That  night  the  leaders  of  the  opposition  met  in  secret  caucus,  called 
together  by  Royson.  When,  curious  and  attentive,  they  assembled  in 
his  private  office,  he  addressed  them: 

"I  have,  gentlemen,  to-day  found  myself  in  a  very  embarrassing 
position ;  a  very  painful  one.  You  all  know  my  devotion  to  our  friend ; 
I  need  not  say,  therefore,  that  here  to-night  the  one  overpowering 
cause  of  the  action  which  I  am  about  to  take  is  my  loyalty  to  him. 
To-day,  from  a  source  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  state  here,  I  was  placed 
in  possession  of  a  fact  which,  if  used,  practically  ends  this  campaign. 
You  must  none  of  you  express  a  doubt,  nor  must  any  one  question  me 
upon  the  subject.  The  only  question  to  be  discussed  is,  shall  we  make 
use  of  the  fact — and  how?"  He  waited  a  moment  until  the  faces  of 
the  committee  betrayed  their  deep  interest. 

"Whom  do  you  consider  in  this  city  the  most  powerful  single  man 
behind  the  movement  to  nominate  Montjoy?" 

"Morgan,"  said  one,  promptly.     It  was  their  unanimous  judgment. 

"Correct !  This  man,  with  his  money  and  zeal,  has  made  our  chances 
uncertain  if  not  desperate,  and  this  man,"  he  continued,  excitedly, 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  ITS  SWORD  77 

"who  is  posing  before  the  public  and  offering  odds  of  three  to  one 
against  us  with  old  Morgan's  money,  is  not  a  white  man!" 

He  had  leaned  over  the  table  and  concluded  his  remarks  in  almost 
a  whisper.  A  painful  silence  followed,  during  which  the  excited  lawer 
glared  inquiringly  into  the  faces  turned  in  horror  upon  him.  "Do 
you  understand?"  he  shouted  at  last.  They  understood. 

A  southern  man  readily  takes  a  hint  upon  such  a  matter.  These 
men  sat  silent,  weighing  in  their  minds  the  final  effect  of  this  announce 
ment.  Roy  son  did  not  give  them  long  to  consider. 

"I  am  certain  of  this,  so  certain  that  if  you  think  best  I  will  publish 
the  fact  to-morrow  and  assume  the  whole  responsibility."  There  was 
But  little  doubt  remaining  then.  But  the  committee  seemed  weighed 
upon  rather  than  stirred  by  the  revelation;  they  spoke  in  low  tones 
to  each  other.  There  was  no  note  of  triumph  in  any  voice.  They 
were  men. 

Presently  the  matter  took  definite  shape.  An  old  man  arose  and 
addressed  his  associates: 

"I  need  not  say,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  astonished  by  this  information, 
and  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  do  say  I  regret  that  it  seems  true.  As 
far  as  I  am  concerned  I  am  opposed  to  its  use.  It  is  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  prove.  Mr.  Royson's  informant  may  be  mistaken,  and  if 
proof  was  not  forthcoming  a  reaction  would  ruin  our  friend."  No 
one  replied,  although  several  nodded  their  heads.  At  length  Royson 
spoke : 

"The  best  way  to  reach  the  heart  of  this  matter  is  to  follow  out 
in  your  minds  a  line  of  action.  Suppose  in  a  speech  I  should  make 
the  charge — what  would  be  the  result?" 

"You  would  be  at  once  challenged!"     Royson  smiled. 

"Who  would  bear  the  challenge?" 

"One  of  the  Montjoys  would  be  morally  compelled  to." 

"Suppose  I  convince  the  bearer  that  a  member  of  his  family  was  my 
authority?"  Then  they  began  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  depth  of  the 
plot.  One  answered: 

"He  would  be  obliged  to  withdraw!'1 

"Exactly!  And  who  else  after  that  would  take  Montjoy's  place? 
Or  how  could  Montjoy  permit  the  duel  to  go  on?  And  if  he  did  find 
a  fool  to  bring  his  challenge,  I  could  not,  for  the  reason  given  in  the 
charge,  meet  his  principal!" 

"A  court  of  honor  might  compel  you  to  prove  your  charge,  and  then 
you  would  be  in  a  hole.  That  is,  unless  you  could  furnish  proof." 


78  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"And  still,"  said  Royson,  "there  would  be  no  duel,  because  there 
would  be  no.  second.  And  you  understand,  gentlemen,"  he  continued, 
smiling,  "that  all  this  would  not  postpone  the  campaign.  Before  the 
court  of  honor  could  settle  the  matter  the  election  would  have  been 
held.  You  can  imagine  how  that  election  would  go  when  it  is  known 
that  Montjoy's  campaign  manager  and  right-hand  man  is  not  white. 
This  man  is  hail-fellow-well-met  with  young  Montjoy;  a  visitor  in 
his  home  and  is  spending  money  like  water.  What  do  you  suppose 
the  country  will  say  when  these  facts  are  handled  on  the  stump? 
Col.  Montjoy  is  ignorant  of  it,  we  know,  but  he  will  be  on  the  defen 
sive  from  the  day  the  revelation  is  made. 

"I  have  said  my  action  is  compelled  by  my  loyalty  to  Swearingen, 
and  I  reiterate  it,  but  we  owe  something  to  the  community,  to  the  white 
race,  to  good  morals  and  posterity.  And  if  I  am  mistaken  in  my  proofs, 
gentlemen,  why,  then,  1  can  withdraw  my  charge.  It  will  not  affect 
the  campaign  already  over.  But  I  will  not  have  to  withdraw." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,'1  said  another  gentleman,  rising  and 
speaking  emphatically,  "this  is  a  matter  upon  which,  under  the 
circumstances,  I  do  not  feel  called  to  vote!  I  cannot  act  without  full 
information!  The  fact  is,  I  am  not  fond  of  such  politics!  If  Mr. 
Royson  has  proofs  that  he  cannot  use  publicly  or  here,  the  best  plan 
would  be  to  submit  them  to  Col.  Montjoy  and  let  him  withdraw,  or 
pull  off  his  lieutentant."  He  passed  out  and  several  with  him.  Royson 
argued  with  the  others,  but  one  by  one  they  left  him.  He  was  burst 
ing  with  rage. 

"I  will  determine  for  myself!"  he  said,  "the  victory  shall  rest  in  me!" 

Then  came  the  speech  of  the  campaign  at  the  court  house.  The 
relations  of  Col.  Montjoy,  his  family  friends,  people  connected  with 
him  in  the  remotest  degree  by  marriage,  army  friends,  members  of 
the  bar,  merchants,  warehousemen  and  farmers  generally,  and  a  large 
sprinkling  of  personal  and  political  enemies  of  Swearingen  made  up 
the  vast  crowd. 

In  the  rear  of  the  hall,  a  smile  upon  his  face,  was  Amos  Royson. 
And  yet  the  secret  glee  in  his  heart,  the  knowledge  that  he,  one  man 
in  all  that  throng,  by  a  single  sentence  could  check  the  splendid  dem 
onstration  and  sweep  the  field,  was  clouded.  It  came  to  him  that 
no  other  member  of  the  Montjoy  clan  was  a  traitor.  Nowhere  is  the 
family  tie  so  strong  as  in  the  south,  and  only  the  power  of  his  ambition 
could  have  held  him  aloof.  Swearingen  had  several  times  represented 
the  district  in  Congress;  it  was  his  turn  when  the  leader  moved  on. 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  ITS  SWORD  79 

This  had  been  understood  for  years  by  the  political  public.  In  the 
meantime  he  had  been  state's  attorney  and  there  were  a  senatorship, 
a  judgeship  and  possibly  the  governorship  to  be  grasped.  He  could 
not  be  expected  to  sacrifice  his  career  upon  the  altar  of  kinship  remote. 
Indeed,  was  it  not  the  duty  of  Montjoy  to  stand  aside  for  the  sake  of 
a  younger  man?  Was  it  not  true  that  a  large  force  in  his  nomination 
had  been  the  belief  that  Swearingen's  right-hand  man  would  probably 
be  silenced  thereby?  It  had  been  a  conspiracy. 

These  thoughts  ran  through  his  mind  as  he  stood  watching  the 
gathering. 

On  the  stage  sat  Edward  Morgan,  a  prominent  figure  and  one 
largly  scanned  by  the  public;  and  Royson  saw  his  face  light  up  and 
turn  to  a  private  box;  saw  his  smile  and  bow.  A  hundred  eyes  were 
turned  with  his,  and  discovered  there,  half  concealed  by  the  curtains, 
the  face  of  Mary  Montjoy-  The  public  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
had  previously  been  forced  on  him. 

Over  Royson's  face  surged  a  wave  of  blood;  a  muttered  oath  drew 
attention  to  him  and  he  changed  his  position.  He  saw  the  advancing 
figure  of  Gen.  Evan  and  heard  his  introductory  speech.  The  morn 
ing  paper  said  it  was  the  most  eloquent  ever  delivered  on  such  an 
occasion;  and  all  that  the  speaker  said  was: 

"Fellow-citizens,  I  have  the  honor  to  introduce  to  you  this  evening 
Col.  Norton  Montjoy.  Hear  him." 

His  rich  bass  voice  rolled  over  the  great  audience;  he  extended 
his  arm  toward  the  orator  of  the  evening,  and  retired  amid  thunders 
of  applause.  Then  came  Col.  Montjoy. 

The  old  south  was  famous  for  its  oratory.  It  was  based  upon  per 
sonal  independence,  upon  family  pride  and  upon  intellect  unhampered 
by  personal  toil  in  uncongenial  occupations;  and  lastly  upon  sentiment. 
Climate  may  have  entered  into  it;  race  and  inheritance  undoubtedly 
did.  The  southern  orator  was  the  feature  of  congressional  displays, 
and  back  in  congressional  archives  lie  orations  that  vie  with  the  best 
of  Athens  and  of  Rome.  But  the  flavor,  the  spectacular  effects,  linger 
only  in  the  memory  of  the  rapidly  lessening  number  who  mingled 
deeply  in  ante-bellum  politics.  No  pen  could  have  faithfully  preserved 
this  environment. 

So  with  the  oration  that  night  in  the  opening  of  the  Montjoy  cam 
paign.  It  was  not  transmissible.  Only  the  peroration  need  be  re 
produced  here: 

"God  forbid!''  he  said  in  a  voice  now  husky  with  emotion  and  its 


80  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

long  strain,  "God  forbid  that  the  day  shall  come  when  the  south  will 
apologize  for  her  dead  heroes!  Stand  by  your  homes:  stand  by  your 
traditions;  keep  our  faith  in  the  past  as  bright  as  your  hopes  for  the 
future!  No  stain  rests  upon  the  honor  of  your  fathers!  Transmit 
their  memories  and  their  virtues  to  posterity  as  its  best  inheritance! 
Defend  your  homes  and  firesides,  remembering  always  that  the  home, 
the  family  circle,  is  the  fountain  head  of  good  government !  Let  none 
enter  there  who  are  unclean.  Keep  it  the  cradle  of  liberty  and  the 
hope  of  the  English  race  on  this  continent,  the  shrine  of  religion, 
of  beauty,  of  purity!" 

He  closed  amid  a  tumult  of  enthusiasm.  Men  stood  on  chairs  to 
cheer;  ladies  wept  and  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  and  then  over  all 
arose  the  strange  melody  that  no  southern  man  can  sit  quiet  under. 
"Dixie"  rang  out  amid  a  frenzy  of  emotion.  Veterans  hugged  each 
other.  The  old  general  came  forward  and  clasped  hands  with  his  com 
rade,  the  band  changing  to  "Auld  Lang  Syne."  People  crowded  on  the 
stage  and  outside  the  building  the  drifting  crowd  filled  the  air  with 
shouts. 

The  last  man  to  rise  from  his  seat  was  Edward  Morgan.  Lost  in 
thought,  his  face  lowered,  he  sat  until  some  one  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  called  him  back  to  the  present.  And  out  in  the  audience, 
clinging  to  a  post,  to  resist  the  stream  of  humanity,  passing  from 
the  aisles,  his  eyes  strained  forward,  heedless  of  the  banter  and  jeers 
poured  upon  him,  Royson  watched  as  best  he  could  every  shade  upon 
the  stranger's  face.  A  cry  burst  from  his  lips.  "It  was  true!"  he 
said,  and  dashed  from  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD,  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER  THAN  THIS!" 

The  city  was  in  a  whirl  on  election  day;  hacks  and  carriages  darted 
here  and  there  all  day  long,  bearing  flaming  placards  and  hauling 
voters  to  the  polls.  Bands  played  at  the  Montjoy  headquarters  and 
everything  to  comfort  the  inner  patriot  was  on  hand. 

Edward  had  taken  charge  of  this  department  and  at  his  own  ex 
pense  conducted  it.  He  was  the  host.  All  kinds  of  wines  and  liquors 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER."  81 

and  malt  drinks,  a  constantly  replenished  lunch,  that  amounted  to  a 
banquet,  and  cigars,  were  at  all  hours  quickly  served  by  a  corps  of 
trained  waiters.  In  all  their  experience,  old  election  stagers  declared 
never  had  this  feature  of  election  day  been  so  complete-  It  goes 
without  saying  that  Montjoy's  headquarters  were  crowded  and  that 
a  great  deal  of  the  interest  which  found  expression  in  the  streets  was 
manufactured  there. 

It  was  a  fierce  struggle;  the  Swearingen  campaign  in  the  county 
had  been  conducted  on  the  "still-hunt"  plan,  and  on  this  day  his  full 
strength  was  polled.  It  was  Montjoy's  home  county,  and  if  it  could 
be  carried  against  him,  the  victory  was  won  at  the  outset. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Mont  joy  people  sought  for  the  moral  effect 
of  an  overwhelming  victory.  There  was  an  expression  of  general  re 
lief  in  the  form  of  cheers,  when  the  town  clocks  struck  five  and  the  polls 
windows  fell.  Anxiety  followed,  and  then  bonfires  blazed,  rockets  ex 
ploded  and  all  night  long  the  artillery  squad  fired  salutes.  Mont  joy 
had  won  by  an  unlooked-for  majority  and  the  vote  of  the  largest 
county  was  secure. 

Edward  had  resolutely  refused  to  think  upon  the  discovery  unfolded 
to  him.  With  reckless  disregard  for  the  future  he  had  determined  to 
bury  the  subject  until  the  arrival  of  Virdow.  But  there  are  ghosts 
that  will  not  come  down  at  the  bidding,  and  so  in  the  intervals  of 
sleep,  of  excitement,  of  politics,  the  remembrance  of  the  fearful  fate 
that  threatened  him  came  up  with  all  the  force  and  terror  of  a  new 
experience. 

Ilexhurst  was  impossible  to  him  alone  and  he  held  to  Norton 
as  long  as  he  could.  There  was  to  be  a  few  days'  rest  after  the  home 
election,  and  the  younger  Montjoy  seized  this  opportunity  to  run 
home  and,  as  he  expressed  it,  "get  acquainted  with  the  family."  Ed 
ward,  without  hesitation,  accepted  his  invitation  to  go  with  him.  They 
had  become  firm  friends  now  and  Edward  stood  high  in  the  family 
esteem.  Reviewing  the  work  that  had  led  up  to  Col.  Montjoy's  mag 
nificent  opening  and  oration,  all  generously  conceded  that  he  had 
been  the  potent  factor. 

It  was  not  true,  in  fact;  the  younger  Montjoy  had  been  the  genius 
of  the  hour,  but  Edward's  aid  and  money  had  been  necessarv.  The 
two  men  were  received  as  conquering  heroes.  As  she  held  his  hand 
in  hers  old  Mrs.  Montjoy  said: 

"You  have  done  us  a  great  service,  Mr.  Morgan,  and  we  cannot 
forget  it,"  and  Mary,  shy  and  happy,  had  smiled  upon  him  and  uttered 


82  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

her  thanks.  There  was  one  discordant  note,  the  daughter-in-law  had 
been  silent  until  all  were  through. 

"And  I  suppose  I  am  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Morgan,  that  Norton  has 
returned  alive.  I  did  not  know  you  were  such  high  livers  over  at  Ilex- 
hurst,"  she  smiled,  maliciously.  "Were  you  not  afraid  of  ghosts?'' 

Edward  looked  at  her  with  ill-disguised  hatred.  For  the  first  time 
he  realized  fully  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  dangerous  enemy.  How 
much  did  she  know?  He  could  make  nothing  of  that  serenely  tran 
quil  face.  He  bowed  only.  She  was  his  friend's  wife. 

But  he  was  not  at  ease  beneath  her  gaze  and  readily  accepted 
Mary's  invitation  to  ride.  She  was  going  to  carry  a  note  from  her 
father  to  a  neighbor,  and  the  chance  of  seeing  the  country  was  one  he 
should  not  neglect.  They  found  a  lazy  mule  and  ancient  country 
buggy  at  the  door.  He  thought  of  the  outfit  of  the  sister-in-law. 
"Annie  has  a  pony  phaeton  that  is  quite  stylish,"  said  Mary,  laugh 
ingly,  as  they  entered  the  old  vehicle,  "but  it  is  only  for  town  use; 
this  is  mine  and  papa's!" 

"Certainly  roomy  and  safe,"  he  said.     She  laughed  out-right. 

"I  will  remember  that;  so  many  people  have  tried  to  say  something 
comforting  about  my  turnout  and  failed;  but  it  does  well  enough.'' 
They  were  off  then,  Edward  driving  awkwardly.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  drawn  the  reins  over  a  mule. 

"How  do  you  make  it  go  fast?"  he  asked,  finally,  in  despair. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  answered,  "we  don't  try.  We  know  the  mule-" 
Her  laugh  was  infectious. 

They  traveled  the  public  roads,  with  their  borders  of  wild  grape, 
crossed  gurgling  streams  under  festoons  of  vines  and  lingered  in 
shady  vistas  of  overhanging  boughs.  Several  times  they  boldly 
entered  private  grounds  and  passed  through  back  yards  without  hail 
ing,  and  at  last  they  came  to  their  destination. 

There  were  two  huge  stone  posts  at  the  entrance,  with  carved  balls 
of  granite  upon  them.  A  thick  tangle  of  muscadine  and  Cherokee 
roses  led  off  from  them  right  and  left,  hiding  the  trail  of  the  long- 
vanished  rail  fence.  In  front  was  an  avenue  of  twisted  cedars,  and, 
closing  the  perspective,  a  glimpse  of  white  columns  and  green  blinds. 

The  girl's  face  was  lighted  with  smiles;  it  was  for  her  a  new  experi 
ence,  this  journeying  with  a  man  alone;  his  voice  melodious  in  her 
hearing;  his  eyes  exchanging  with  hers  quick  understandings,  for 
Edward  was  happy  that  morning — happy  in  his  forgetfulness.  He 
had  thrown  off  the  weight  of  misery  successfully,  and  for  the  first 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER."  83 

time  in  his  life  there  was  really  a  smile  in  his  heart.    It,  was  the  dream 
of  an  hour;  he  would  not  mar  it.    Her  voice  recalled  him. 

"I  have  always  loved  'The  Cedars.'  It  wears  such  an  air  of  gen 
tility  and  refinement.  It  must  be  that  something  of  the  lives  gone 
by  clings  to  these  old  places.'' 

"Whose  is  it?"    She  turned  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  this  is  where  we  were  bound — Gen.  Evan's.  I  have  a  note  for 
him." 

"Ah!"  The  exclamation  was  one  of  awe  rather  than  wonder.  She 
saw  him  start  violently  and  grow  pale."  "Evan?"  he  said,  with  emotion. 

"You  know  him?" 

"Not  I.''  He  felt  her  questioning  gaze  and  looked  into  her  face. 
"That  is,  I  have  been  introduced  to  him,  only,  and  I  have  heard  him 
speak."  After  a  moment's  reflection:  "Sometime,  perhaps,  I  shall 
tell  you  why  for  the  moment  I  was  startled."  She  could  not  under 
stand  his  manner.  Fortunately  they  had  arrived  at  the  house.  Con 
fused  still,  he  followed  her  up  the  broad  steps  to  the  veranda  and  saw 
her  lift  the  antique  knocker. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  de  general's  home;  walk  in,  ma'am;  find  him  right 
back  in  the  liberry."  With  that  delightful  lack  of  formality  common' 
among  intimate  neighbors  in  the  south,  Mary  led  the  way  in.  She 
made  a  pretty  picture  as  she  paused  at  the  door.  The  sun  was  shin 
ing  through  the  painted  window  and  suffused  her  form  with  roseate 
light. 

"May  I  come  in?'' 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  The  old  man  rose  with  a  great  show  of 
welcome  and  came  forward.  "  'May  I  come  in?'  How  d'ye  do,  Mary, 
God  bless  you,  child;  yes,  come  clear  in,"  he  said,  laughing,  and  be 
stowed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips.  At  that  moment  he  caught  sight  of  the 
face  of  Edward,  who  stood  behind  her,  pale  from  the  stream  of  light 
that  came  from  a  white  crest  in  the  window.  The  two  men  gazed 
steadily  into  each  other's  eyes  a  moment  only.  The  girl  began: 

"This  is  Mr.  Morgan,  general,  who  has  been  such  a  friend  to  father." 

The  rugged  face  of  the  old  soldier  lighted  up,  he  took  the  young 
man's  hands  in  both  of  his  and  pressed  them  warmly. 

"I  have  already  met  Mr.  Morgan.  The  friend  of  my  friend  is 
welcome  to  'The  Cedars'."  He  turned  to  move  chairs  for  them. 

The  face  of  the  young  man  grew  white  as  he  bowed  gravely.  There 
had  been  a  recognition,  but  no  voice  spoke  from  the  far-away  past 
through  his  lineaments  to  that  lonely  old  man.  During  the  visit  he 


84  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

was  distrait  and  embarrassed.  The  courtly  attention  of  his  host  and 
his  playful  gallantry  with  Mary  awoke  no  smile  upon  his  lips.  Some 
where  a  barrier  had  fallen  and  the  waters  of  memory  had  rushed  in. 
Finally  he  was  forced  to  arouse  himself. 

"John  Morgan  was  a  warm  friend  of  mine  at  one  time,"  said  the 
old  general.  "How  was  he  related  to  you?" 

"Distantly,"  said  Edward  quietly.  "I  was  an  orphan,  and  indebted 
to  him  for  everything." 

"An  eccentric  man,  but  John  had  a  good  heart — errors  like  the  rest 
of  us,  of  course."  The  general's  face  grew  sad  for  the  moment,  but 
he  rallied  and  turned  the  conversation  to  the  political  campaign. 

"A  grand  speech  that,  Mr.  Morgan;  I  have  never  heard  a  finer, 
and  I  have  great  speakers  in  my  day !  Our  district  will  be  well  and 
honorably  represented  in  Congress.  Now,  our  little  friend  here  will 
go  to  Washington  and  get  her  name  into  the  papers." 

"No,  indeed.  If  papa  wins  I  am  going  to  stay  with  mamma.  I  am 
going  to  be  her  eyes  as  well  as  her  hands.  Mamma  would  not  like 
the  city." 

"And  how  is  the  little  mamma?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  so  well  and  her  eyes  trouble  her  very 
much." 

What  a  sweet  woman  she  is!  I  can  never  forget  the  night  Norton 
led  her  to  the  altar.  I  have  never  seen  a  fairer  sight — until  now," 
he  interpolated,  smiling  and  saluting  Mary  with  formal  bow.  "She 
had  a  perfect  figure  and  her  walk  was  the  exposition  of  grace."  Mary 
surveyed  him  with  swimming  eyes.  She  went  up  and  kissed  him 
lightly.  He  detained  her  a  moment  when  about  to  take  her  departure. 

"You  are  a  fortunate  man,  Morgan.  In  all  the  world  you  will  find 
no  rarer  flower  than  this.  I  envy  you  your  ride  home.  Come  again, 
Mary,  and  bring  Mr.  Morgan  with  you."  She  broke  loose  from  him 
and  darted  off  in  confusion.  He  had  guessed  her  secret  and  well  was 
it  that  he  had! 

The  ride  home  was  as  a  dream.  The  girl  was  excited  and  full  of 
life  and  banter  and  Edward,  throwing  off  his  sadness,  had  entered 
into  the  hour  of  happiness  with  the  same  abandon  that  marked  his 
campaign  with  Norton. 

But  as  they  entered  the  long  stretch  of  wood  through  which  their 
road  ran  to  her  home,  Edward  brought  back  the  conversation  to  the 
general. 

"Yes,  said  Mary,  "he  lives  quite  alone,  a  widower,  but  beloved  by 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER"  85 

every  one.  It  is  an  old,  sad  story,  but  his  daughter  eloped  just  before 
the  war  broke  out  and  went  abroad.  He  has  never  heard  from  her, 
it  is  supposed.'' 

"I  have  heard  the  fact  mentioned,"  said  Morgan,  "and  also  that 
she  was  to  have  married  my  relative." 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  a  great  sorrow  to  the 
general,  and  a  girl  who  could  give  up  such  a  man  must  have  been 
wrong  at  heart  or  infatuated." 

"Infatuated,  let  us  hope." 

"That  is  the  best  explanation,"  she  said  gently. 

He  was  driving;  in  a  few  moments  he  would  arrive  at  the  house. 
Should  he  tell  her  the  history  of  Gerald  and  let  her  clear,  honest 
mind  guide  him?  Should  he  tell  her  that  Fate  had  made  him  the  cus 
todian  of  the  only  being  in  the  world  who  had  a  right  to  that  honor 
able  name  "when  the  veteran  back  yonder  found  his  last  camp  and 
crossed  the  river  to  rest  in  the  shade  with  the  immortal  Jackson? 
He  turned  to  her  and  she  met  his  earnest  gaze  with  a  winning  smile, 
but  at  the  moment  something  in  his  life  cried  out.  The  secret  was 
as  much  his  duty  as  the  ward  himself  and  to  confess  to  her  his  belief 
that  Gerald  was  the  son  of  Marion  Evan  was  to  confess  to  himself 
that  he  was  the  son  of  the  octoroon.  He  would  not.  Her  smile  died 
away  before  the  misery  in  his  face. 

"You  are  ill,"  she  said  in  quick  sympathy. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  faintly;  "yes  and  no.  The  loss  of  sleep — excite 
ment — your  southern  sun "  The  world  grew  black  and  he  felt 

himself  falling.  In  the  last  moment  of  his  consciousness  he  remem 
bered  that  her  arm  was  thrown  about  him  and  that  in  response  to 
her  call  for  help  negroes  from  the  cotton  fields  came  running. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  They  rested  upon  the  chintz  curtains  of  the 
room  upstairs,  from  the  window  of  which  he  had  heard  her  voice 
calling  the  chickens.  Some  one  was  bathing  his  forehead;  there  were 
figures  gliding  here  and  there  across  his  vision.  He  turned  his  eyes 
and  saw  the  anxious  face  of  Mrs.  Montjoy  watching  him. 

"What  is  it?"     He  spoke  in  wonder. 

"Hush,  now,  my  boy;  you  have  been  very  ill;  you  must  not  talk!" 
He  tried  to  lift  his  hand.  It  seemed  made  of  lead  and  not  connected 
with  him  in  any  way.  Gazing  helplessly  upon  it,  he  saw  that  it  was 
thin  and  white — the  hand  of  an  invalid. 


86  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"How  long?"  he  asked,  after  a  rest.  The  slight  effort  took  his 
strength. 

"Three  weeks."  Three  weeks !  This  was  more  than  he  could  adjust 
in  the  few  working  sections  of  his  brain.  He  ceased  to  try  and  closed 
his  eyes  in  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT. 

It  had  been  brain  fever.  For  ten  days  Edward  was  helpless,  but 
under  the  care  of  the  two  loving  women  he  rapidly  recovered.  The 
time  came  when  he  could  sit  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  upon  the  ver 
anda  and  listen  to  the  voices  he  had  learned  to  love — for  he  no  longer 
disguised  the  truth  from  himself.  The  world  held  for  him  but  one 
dream,  through  it  and  in;  the  spell  of  his  first  home  life  the  mother 
became  a  being  to  be  reverenced.  She  was  the  fulfilled  promise  of 
the  girl,  all  the  tender  experiences  of  life  were  pictured  in  advance 
for  him  who  should  win  her  hand  and  heart. 

But  it  was  only  a  dream.  During  the  long  hours  of  the  night  as 
he  lay  wakeful,  with  no  escape  from  himself,  he  thought  out  the 
situation  and  made  up  his  mind  to  action.  He  would  go  to  Col.  Mont- 
joy  and  confess  the  ignorance  of  his  origin  that  overwhelmed  him  and 
then  he  would  provide  for  his  ward  and  go  away  with  Virdow 
to  the  old  world  and  the  old  life. 

The  mental  conclusion  of  his  plan  was  a  species  of  settlement.  It 
helped  him.  Time  and  again  he  cried  out,  when  the  remembrance 
came  back  to  him,  but  it  was  the  honorable  course  and  he  would  fol 
low  it.  He  would  go  away. 

The  hours  of  his  convalescence  were  the  respite  he  allowed  him 
self.  Day  by  day  he  said:  "I  will  go  to-morrow.''  In  the  morning 
it  was  still  "to-morrow."  And  when  he  finally  made  his  announce 
ment  he  was  promptly  overruled.  Col.  Montjoy  and  Norton  were 
away,  speaking  and  campaigning.  All  primaries  had  been  held  but 
two.  The  colonel's  enemies  had  conceded  to  him  of  the  remaining 
counties  the  remote  one.  The  other  was  a  county  with  a  large  pop 
ulation  and  cast  four  votes  in  the  convention.  It  was  the  home  of 
Swearingen,  but,  as  frequently  happens,  it  was  the  scene  of  the  can- 


BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT         87 

didate's  greatest  weakness.  There  the  struggle  was  to  be  titanic. 
Both  counties  were  needed  to  nominate  Montjoy. 

The  election  took  place  on  the  day  of  Edward's  departure  for  Ilex- 
hurst.  That  evening  he  saw  a  telegram  announcing  that  the  largo 
county  had  given  its  vote  to  Montjoy  by  a  small  majority.  The  remote 
county  had  but  one  telegraph  office,  and  that  at  a  way  station  upon 
its  border.  Little  could  be  heard  from  it,  but  the  public  conceded 
Col.  Montjoy's  nomination,  since  there  had  been  no  doubt  as  to  this 
county.  Edward  hired  a  horse,  put  a  man  upon  it,  sent  the  news 
to  the  two  ladies  and  then  went  to  his  home. 

He  found  awaiting  him  two  letters  of  importance.  One  from 
Virdow,  saying  he  would  sail  from  Havre  on  the  25th;  that  was 
twelve  days  previous.  He  was  therefore  really  due  at  Ilexhurst  then. 
The  other  was  a  letter  he  had  written  to  Abingdon  soon  after  his 
first  arrival,  and  was  marked  "returned  to  writer."  He  wondered  at 
this.  The  address  was  the  same  he  had  used  for  years  in  his  corre 
spondence.  Although  Abingdon  was  frequently  absent  from  England, 
the  letters  had  always  reached  him.  Why,  then,  was  this  one  not 
forwarded?  He  put  it  aside  and  ascertained  that  Virdow  had  not 
arrived  at  the  house. 

It  was  then  8  o'clock  in  the  evening.  By  his  order  a  telephone 
had  been  placed  in  the  house,  and  he  at  once  rang  up  the  several 
hotels.  Virdow  was  found  to  be  at  one  of  these,  and  he  succeeded 
in  getting  that  distinguished  gentleman  to  connect  himself  with  the 
American  invention  and  explained  to  him  the  situation. 

"Take  any  hack  and  come  at  once,"  was  the  message  that  concluded 
their  conversation,  and  Virdow  came!  In  the  impulsive  continental 
style,  he  threw  himself  into  Edward's  arms  when  the  latter  opened 
the  door  of  the  carriage. 

Slender,  his  thin  black  clothes  hanging  awkwardly  upon  his,  his 
trousers  too  short,  the  breadth  of  his  round  German  face,  the  knobs  on 
his  shining  bald  forehead  exaggerated  by  the  puffy  gathering  of  the 
hair  over  his  ears,  his  candid  little  eyes  shining  through  the  round, 
double-power  glasses,  his  was  a  figure  one  had  to  know  for  a  long 
time  in  order  to  look  upon  it  without  smiling. 

Long  the  two  sat  with  their  cigars  and  ran  over  the  old  days  to 
gether.  Then  the  professor  told  of  wondrous  experiments  in  sound, 
of  the  advance  knowledge  into  the  regions  of  psychology,  of  the  mar 
vels  of  heredity.  His  old  great  theme  was  still  his  ruling  passion. 
"If  the  mind  has  no  memory,  then  much  of  the  phenomena  of  life 


88  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

is  worse  than  bewildering.  Prove  its  memory.''  he  was  wont  to  say, 
"and  I  will  prove  immortality  through  that  memory." 

It  was  the  same  old  professor.  He  was  up  now  and  every  muscle 
working  as  he  struggled  and  gesticulated,  and  wrote  invisible  hier 
oglyphics  in  the  air  about  him  and  made  geometrical  figures  with 
palms  and  fingers.  But  the  professor  had  advanced  in  speculation. 

"The  time  will  come,  my  young  friend,"  he  said  at  last,  "when  the 
mind  will  give  us  its  memories  complete.  We  shall  learn  the  secrets 
of  creation  by  memory.  In  its  perfection  we  shall  place  a  man  yonder 
and  by  vibration  get  his  mind  memory  to  work;  theoretically  he  will 
first  write  of  his  father  and  then  his  grandfather,  describing  their 
mental  lives.  He  will  go  back  along  the  lines  of  his  ancestry.  He 
will  get  into  Latin,  then  Greek,  then  Hebrew,  then  Chaldean,  then 
into  cuneiform  inscriptions,  then  into  figure  representation.  He  will 
be  an  artist  or  musician  or  sculptor,  and  possibly  all  if  the  back 
trail  of  his  memory  crosses  such  talents.  "Aye,"  he  continued,  enthu 
siastically,  "lost  nations  will  live  again.  The  portraits  of  our  an 
cestors  will  hang  in  view  along  the  corridors  of  all  times!  This  will 
come  by  vibratory  force,  but  how?" 

Edward  leaned  forward,  breathless  almost  with  emotion. 

"You  say  the  time  is  come;  what  has  been  done?" 

"Little  and  much!     The  experiments '» 

"Tell  me,  in  all  your  experiments,  have  you  known  where  a  child, 
separated  from  a  parent  since  infancy,  without  aid  of  description,  or 
photograph,  or  information  derived  from  a  living  person,  could  see 
in  memory  or  imagination  the  face  of  that  parent,  see  it  with  such 
distinctness  as  to  enable  him,  an  artist,  to  reproduce  it  in  all  periec- 
tion?" 

The  professor  wiped  his  glasses  nervously  and  kept  his  gaze  upon 
his  questioner. 

"Never." 

"Then,"  said  Edward,  "you  have  crossed  the  ocean  to  some  purpose! 
I  have  known  such  an  instance  here  in  this  house.  The  person  is 
still  here!  You  know  me,  my  friend,  and  you  do  not  know  me.  To 
you  I  was  a  rich  young  American,  with  a  turn  for  science  and  specu 
lation.  You  made  me  your  friend  and  God  bless  you  for  it,  but  you 
did  not  know  all  of  that  mystery  which  hangs  over  my  life  never 
to  be  revealed  perhaps  until  the  millennium  of  science  you  have  out 
lined  dawns  upon  us.  The  man  who  educated  me,  who  enriched  me, 
was  not  my  parent  or  relative;  he  was  my  guardian.  He  has  made 


BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT         89 

me  the  guardian  of  a  frail,  sickly  lad  whose  mystery  is,  or  was,  as 
complete  as  mine.  Teach  us  to  remember."  The  words  burst  from  him. 
They  held  the  pent-up  flood  that  had  almost  wrecked  his  brain. 

Rapidly  he  recounted  the  situation,  leaving  out  the  woman's  story 
as  to  himself.  Not  to  his  Savior  would  he  confess  that. 

And  then  he  told  how,  following  his  preceptor's  hints  about  vibra 
tion,  he  had  accidentally  thrown  Gerald  into  a  trance;  its  results, 
the  second  experiment,  the  drawing  and  the  woman's  story  of  Gerald's 
birth. 

During  this  recital  the  professor  never  moved  his  eyes  from  the 
speaker's  face. 

"You  wish  to  know  what  I  think  of  it?  This:  I  have  but  recently 
ventured  the  proposition  publicly  that  all  ideal  faces  on  the  artist's 
canvas  are  mind  memories.  Prove  to  me  anew  your  results  and  if  I 
establish  the  reasonableness  of  my  theory  I  shall  have  accomplished 
enough  to  die  on." 

"In  your  opinion,  then,  this  picture  that  Gerald  drew  is  a  mind 
memory  ?" 

"Undoubtedly.  But  you  will  perceive  that  the  more  distant,  the 
older  the  experience,  we  may  say,  the  less  likelihood  of  accuracy." 

"It  would  depend,  then,  you  think,  upon  the  clearness  of  the  original 
impression?" 

"That  is  true!  The  vividness  of  an  old  impression  may  also  out 
shine  a  new  one.'' 

"And  if  this  young  man  recalls  the  face  of  a  woman,  who  we 
believe  it  possible — nay,  probable — is  his  mother,  and  then  the  face 
of  one  we  know  to  be  her  father,  as  a  reasonable  man,  would  you 
consider  the  story  of  this  negro  woman  substantiated  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt?" 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt." 

"We  shall  try,"  said  Edward,  and  then,  after  a  moment's  silence: 
"He  is  shy  of  strangers  and  you  may  find  it  difficult  to  get  acquainted 
with  him.  After  you  have  succeeded  in  gaining  his  confidence  we 
shall  settle  upon  a  way  to  proceed.  One  word  more,  he  is  a  victim 
of  morphia.  Did  I  tell  you  that?" 

"No,  but  I  guessed  it." 

"You  have  known  such  men  before,  then?'' 

"I  have  studied  the  proposition  that  opium  may  be  a  power  to  effect 
what  we  seek,  and,  in  connection  with  it,  have  studied  the  hospitals 
that  make  a  specialty  of  such  cases." 


90  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  presently  Edward  said: 

"Will  you  say  good-night  now?" 

"Good-night."  The  professor  gazed  about  him.  "How  was  it  you 
used  to  say  good-night,  Edward?  Old  customs  are  good.  It  is  not 
possible  that  the  violin  has  been  lost."  He  smiled  and  Edward  got  his 
instrument  and  played.  He  knew  the  old  man's  favorites;  the  little 
folk-melodies  of  the  Rhine  country,  bits  of  love  songs,  mostly,  around 
which  the  loving  players  of  Germany  have  woven  so  many  beautiful 
fancies.  And  in  the  playing  Edward  himself  was  quieted. 

The  light  from  the  hall  downstairs  streamed  out  along  the  gravel 
walk,  and  in  the  glare  was  a  man  standing  with  arms  folded  and  head 
bent  forward.  A  tall  woman  came  and  gently  laid  her  hand  upon 
him.  He  started  violently,  tossed  his  arms  aloft  and  rushed  into  the 
darkness.  She  waited  in  silence  a  moment  and  then  slowly  followed 
him. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!" 

When  Edward  opened  the  morning  paper,  which  he  did  while  wait 
ing  for  the  return  of  the  professor,  who  had  wandered  away  before 
breakfast,  he  was  shocked  by  the  announcement  of  Montjoy's  defeat. 
The  result  of  the  vote  in  the  remote  county  had  been  secured  by  horse 
back  service  organized  by  an  enterprising  journal,  and  telegraphed. 
The  official  returns  were  given. 

Already  the  campaign  had  drifted  far  into  the  past  with  him;  years 
seemed  to  have  gone  by  when  he  arose  from  the  sick-bed  and  now  it 
scarcely  seemed  possible  that  he,  Edward  Morgan,  was  the  same  man 
who  labored  among  the  voters,  shouted  himself  hoarse  and  kept  the 
headquarters  so  successfully.  It  must  have  been  a  dream. 

But  Mary !  That  part  was  real.  He  wrote  her  a  few  lines  express 
ing  his  grief. 

And  then  came  the  professor,  with  his  adventure!  He  had  met 
a  young  man  out  making  photographs  and  had  interested  him  with 
descriptions  of  recent  successful  attempts  to  photograph  in  colors. 
And  then  they  had  gone  to  the  wing-room  and  examined  the  results  of 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  91 

the  young  man's  efforts  to  produce  pictures  upon  living  substances. 
"He  has  some  of  the  most  original  theories  and  ideas  upon  the  subject 
I  have  heard,"  said  the  German.  "Not  wild  beyond  the  possibilities 
of  invention,  however,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  has  taught  me 
a  lesson  in  common  sense.  'Find  how  nature  photographs  upon  living 
tissue,'  said  the  young  man,  'and  when  you  have  reduced  your  pictures 
to  the  invisible  learn  to  re-enlarge  them;  perhaps  you  will  learn  to 
enlarge  nature's  invisibles.' 

"He  has  discovered  that  the  convolutions  of  the  human  brain  re 
semble  an  embryo  infant  and  that  the  new  map  which  indicates  the 
nerve  lines  centering  in  the  brain  from  different  parts  of  the  body 
shows  them  entering  the  corresponding  parts  of  the  embryo.  He 
lingers  upon  the  startling  idea  that  the  nerve  is  a  formative  organ,  and 
that  by  sensations  conveyed,  and  by  impressions,  it  actually  shapes 
the  brain.  When  sensations  are  identical  and  persistent  they  establish 
a  family  form.  The  brain  is  a  bas-relief  composite  picture,  shaped 
by  all  the  nerves.  Theoretically  a  man's  brain  carefully  removed,  pho 
tographed  and  enlarged  ought  to  show  the  outlines  of  a  family  form, 
with  all  the  modifications. 

"You  will  perceive  that  he  is  working  along  hereditary  lines  and 
not  psychologic.  And  I  am  not  sure  but  that  in  this  he  is  pursuing 
the  wisest  course,  heredity  being  the  primer." 

"You  believe  he  has  made  a  new  discovery,  then?" 

"As  to  that,  no.  The  speculative  mind  is  tolerant.  It  accepts  noth 
ing  that  is  not  proven;  it  rejects  nothing  that  has  not  been  disproved. 
The  original  ideas  in  most  discoveries  in  their  crude  forms  were  not 
less  wild  than  this.  All  men  who  observe  are  friends  of  science.'1 

The  incident  pleased  Edward.  To  bring  the  professor  and  Gerald 
together  he  had  feared  would  be  difficult.  Chance  and  the  pofessor's 
tact  had  already  accomplished  this  successfully. 

"I  shall  leave  you  and  Gerald  to  get  thoroughly  acquainted.  When 
you  have  learned  him  you  can  study  him  best.  I  have  business  of 
importance." 

He  at  once  went  to  the  city  and  posted  his  letter.  Norton's  leav« 
had  been  exhausted  and  he  had  already  departed  for  New  York. 

At  the  club  and  at  the  almost  forsaken  headquarters  of  the  Mont- 
joy  party  all  was  consternation  and  regret.  The  fatal  overconfidence 
in  the  backwoods  county  was  settled  upon  as  the  cause  of  the  disaster. 
And  yet  why  should  that  county  have  failed  them?  Two  companies 
of  Evan's  old  brigade  were  recruited  there;  he  had  been  assured  by 


92  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

almost  every  prominent  man  in  the  county  of  its  vote.     And  then 
came  the  crushing  blow. 

The  morning  paper  had  wired  for  special  reports  and  full  particu 
lars,  and  at  12  o'clock  an  extra  was  being  cried  upon  the  streets. 
Everybody  bought  the  paper;  the  street  cars,  the  hotels,  the  clubs,  the 
street  corners,  were  thronged  with  people  eagerly  reading  the  an 
nouncement.  Under  triple  head  lines,  which  contained  the  words 
"Fraud"  and  "Slander"  and  "Treachery,''  came  this  article,  which 
Edward  read  on  the  street: 

"The  cause  of  the  fatal  slump-off  of  Col.  Montjoy's  friends  in 
this  county  was  a  letter  placed  in  circulation  here  yesterday  and  in 
dustriously  spread  to  the  remotest  voting  places.  It  was  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Amos  Royson  to  the  Hon.  Thomas  Brown  of  this  county. 
Your  correspondent  has  secured  and  herewith  sends  a  copy: 

"  'My  Dear  Sir:  In  view  of  the  election  about  to  be  held  in  your 
county,  I  beg  to  submit  the  following  facts:  Against  the  honor  and 
integrity  of  Col.  Montjoy  nothing  can  be  urged,  but  it  is  known  here 
so  positively  that  I  do  not  hesitate  to  state,  and  authorize  you 
to  use  it,  that  the  whole  Montjoy  movement  is  in  reality  based  upon 
an  effort  to  crush  Swearingen  for  his  opposition  to  certain  corpora 
tion  measures  in  congress,  and  which  by  reason  of  his  position  on 
certain  committees,  he  threatens  with  defeat!  To  this  end  money  has 
been  sent  here  and  is  being  lavishly  expended  by  a  tool  of  the  corpo 
ration.  Added  to  this  fact  that  the  man  chosen  for  the  business  is 
one  calling  himself  Edward  Morgan,  the  natural  son  of  a  late  eccentric 
bachelor  lawyer  of  this  city.  The  mother  of  this  man  is  an  octoroon, 
who  now  resides  wifn  him  at  his  home  in  the  suburbs.  It  is  certain 
that  these  facts  are  not  known  to  the  people  who  have  him  in  tow, 
but  they  are  easy  of  substantiation  when  necessary.  We  look  to  you 
and  your  county  to  save  the  district.  We  were  "done  up"  here  before 
we  were  armed  with  this  information.  Respectfully  yours, 

'Amos  Royson.' 

"Thousands  of  these  circulars  were  printed  and  yesterday  put  in 
the  hands  of  every  voter.  Col.  Montjoy's  friends  were  taken  by  sur 
prise  and  their  enthusiasm  chilled.  Many  failed  to  vote  and  the 
county  was  lost  by  twenty-three  majority.  Intense  excitement  pre 
vails  here  among  the  survivors  of  Evan's  brigade,  who  feel  them 
selves  compromised.'' 

Then  followed  an  editorial  denouncing  the  outrage  and  demanding 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  93 

proofs.  It  ended  by  stating  that  the  limited  time  prevented  the  pre 
sentation  of  interviews  with  Royson  and  Morgan,  neither  of  whom 
could  be  reached  by  telephone  after  the  news  was  received. 

There  are  moments  when  the  very  excess  of  danger  calms.  Half 
the  letter,  the  political  lie  alone,  would  have  enraged  Edward  beyond 
expression.  He  could  not  realize  nor  give  expression.  The  attack  up 
on  his  blood  was  too  fierce  an  assault.  In  fact,  he  was  stunned.  He 
looked  up  to  find  himself  in  front  of  the  office  of  Ellison  Eldridge. 
Turning  abruptly  he  ascended  the  steps ;  the  lawyer  was  reading  the 
article  as  he  appeared,  but  would  have  laid  aside  the  paper. 

"Finish,"  said  Edward,  curtly;  "it  is  upon  that  publication  I  have 
come  to  advise  with  you."  He  stood  at  the  window  while  the  other 
read,  and  there  as  he  waited  a  realization  of  the  enormity  of  the  blow, 
its  cowardliness,  its  cruelty,  grew  upon  him  slowly.  He  had  never 
contemplated  publicity;  he  had  looked  forward  to  a  life  abroad,  with 
this  wearing  mystery  forever  gnawing  at  his  heart,  but  publication 
and  the  details  and  the  apparent  truth!  It  was  horrible!  And  to 
disprove  it — how?  The  minutes  passed!  Would  the  man  behind  him 
never  finish  what  he  himself  had  devoured  in  three  minutes?  He 
looked  back;  Eldridge  was  gazing  over  the  paper  into  space,  his  face 
wearing  an  expression  of  profound  melancholy.  He  had  uttered  no 
word  of  denunciation;  he  was  evidently  not  even  surprised. 

"My  God."  exclaimed  Edward,  excitedly;  "you  believe  it — you  be 
lieve  it!"  Seizing  the  paper,  he  dashed  from  the  room,  threw  himself 
into  a  hack  and  gave  the  order  for  home. 

And  half  an  hour  after  he  was  gone  the  lawyer  sat  as  he  left  him, 
thinking. 

Edward  found  a  reporter  awaiting  him. 

"You  have  the  extra,  I  see,  Mr.  Morgan,"  said  he;  "may  I  ask 
what  you  will  reply  to  it?'' 

"Nothing!"  thundered  the  desperate  man. 

"Will  you  not  say  it  is  false?" 

Edward  went  up  to  him.  "Young  man,  there  are  moments  when 
it  is  dangerous  to  question  people.  This  is  one  of  them!"  He  opened  the 
door  and  stood  waiting.  Something  in  his  face  induced  the  news 
paper  man  to  take  his  leave.  He  said  as  He  departed:  "If  you  write 
a  card  we  shall  be  glad  to  publish  it."  The  sound  of  the  closing  door 
was  the  answer  he  received. 

Alone  and  locked  in  his  room,  Edward  read  the  devilish  letter  over 
and  over,  until  every  word"  of  it  was  seared  into  his  brain  forever. 


94  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  more  than  once  in  his  life  the  possibility 
of  his  being  the  son  of  John  Morgan  had  suggested  itself  to  his  mind, 
but  he  had  invariably  dismissed  it.  Now  it  came  back  to  him  with  the 
force  almost  of  conviction.  Had  the  truth  been  stated  at  last?  It 
was  the  only  explanation  that  fitted  the  full  circumstances  of  his  life — 
and  it  fitted  them  all.  It  was  true  and  known  to  be  true  by  at  least 
one  other.  Eldridge's  legal  mind,  prejudiced  in  his  favor  by  years 
of  association  with  his  benefactor,  had  been  at  once  convinced;  and 
if  the  statement  made  so  positively  carried  conviction  to  Eldridge 
himself,  to  his  legal  friend,  how  would  the  great  sensational  public 
receive  it? 

It  was  done,  and  the  result  was  to  be  absolute  and  eternal  ruin  for 
Edward  Morgan.  Such  was  the  conclusion  forced  upon  him. 

Then  there  arose  in  mind  the  face  of  the  one  girl  he  remembered. 
He  thought  of  the  effect  of  the  blow  upon  her.  He  had  been  her  guest, 
her  associate.  The  family  had  received  him  with  open  arms.  They 
must  share  the  odium  of  his  disgrace,  and  for  him  now  what  course 
was  left?  Flight!  To  turn  his  back  upou  all  the  trouble  and  go  to 
his  old  life,  and  let  the  matter  die  out! 

And  then  came  another  thought.    Could  any  one  prove  the  charge? 

He  was  in  the  dark;  the  cards  were  held  with  their  backs  to  him. 
Suppose  he  should  bring  suit  for  libel,  what  could  he  offer?  His 
witness  had  already  spoken  and  her  words  substantiated  the  charge 
against  him.  Not  a  witness,  not  a  scrap  of  paper,  was  to  be  had  in  his 
defense.  A  libel  suit  would  be  the  rivet  in  his  irons  and  he  would  face 
the  public,  perhaps  for  days,  and  be  openly  the  subject  of  discussion.  It 
was  impossible,  but  he  could  fight. 

The  thought  thrilled  him  to  the  heart.  She  should  see  that  he  was 
a  man!  He  would  not  deal  with  slander  suits,  with  newspapers;  he 
would  make  the  scoundrel  eat  his  words  or  he  would  silence  his  mouth 
forever.  The  man  soul  was  stirred;  he  no  longer  felt  the  humiliation 
that  had  rendered  him  incapable  of  thought.  The  truth  of  the  story 
was  not  the  issue;  the  injury  was  its  use,  false  or  true.  He  strode 
into  Gerald's  room  and  broke  into  the  experiments  of  the  scientists, 
already  close  friends. 

"You  have  weapons  here.  Lend  me  one;  the  American  uses  the 
revolver,  I  believe?'* 

Gerald  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  but  he  was  interested. 

"Here  is  one;  can  you  shoot?" 

"Badly;  the  small  sword  is  my  weapon." 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  95 

"Then  let  me  teach  you."  Gerald  was  a  boy  now;  weapons  had  been 
his  hobby  years  before. 

"Wait,  let  me  fix  a  target!"  He  brushed  a  chalk  drawing  from 
a  blackboard  at  the  end  of  the  room  and  stood,  crayon  in  hand.  "What 
would  you  prefer  to  shoot  at,  a  tree,  a  figure " 

"A  figure!'' 

Gerald  rapidly  sketched  the  outlines  of  a  man  with  white  shirt 
front  and  stepped  aside.  Five  times  the  man  with  the  weapon  sighted 
and  fired.  The  figure  was  not  touched.  Gerald  was  delighted.  He 
ran  up,  took  the  pistol  and  reloaded  it  and  fired  twice  in  succession. 
Two  spots  appeared  upon  the  shirt  front;  they  were  just  where  the 
lower  and  center  shirt  studs  would  have  been. 

"You  are  an  artist,  I  believe,"  he  said  to  Edward. 

The  latter  bowed  his  head.  "Now,  professor,  I  will  show  you  one 
of  the  most  curious  experiments  in  physics,  the  one  that  explains  the 
chance  stroke  of  billiards  done  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment;  the 
one  rifle  shot  of  a  man's  life,  and  the  accurately  thrown  stone.  Stand 
here,"  he  said  to  Edward,  "and  follow  my  directions  closely.  Remem 
ber,  you  are  a  draftsman  and  are  going  to  outline  that  figure  on  the 
board.  Draw  it  quickly  with  your  pistol  for  a  pen,  and  just  as  if  you 
were  touching  the  board.  Say  when  you  have  finished  and  don't  lower 
the  pistol.  Edward  drew  as  directed. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said. 

"You  have  not  added  the  upper  stud.    Fire !" 

An  explosion  followed;  a  spot  appeared  just  over  the  heart. 

"See!"'  shouted  Gerald;  "a  perfect  aim;  the  pistol  was  on  the  stud 
when  he  fired,  but  beginners  always  pull  the  muzzle  to  the  right,  and 
let  the  barrel  fly  up.  The  secret  is  this,  professor,"  he  continued,  tak 
ing  a  pencil  and  beginning  to  draw,  "the  concentration  of  attention 
is  so  perfect  that  the  hand  is  a  part  of  the  eye.  An  artist  who  shoots 
will  shoot  as  he  draws,  well  or  badly.  Now,  no  man  drawing  that 
figure  will  measure  to  see  where  the  stud  should  be;  he  would  simply 
put  the  chalk  spot  in  the  right  place." 

Edward  heard  no  more;  loading  the  pistol  he  had  departed.  "If 
I  meet  the  man!"  he  said  to  himself. 


96  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN. 

The  search  for  Royson  was  unavailing.  His  determined  pursuer 
tried  his  office  door;  it  was  locked.  He  walked  every  business  street, 
entered  every  restaurant  and  billiard  saloon,  every  hotel  lobby.  The 
politician  was  not  to  be  found.  He  himself  attracted  widespread  at- 
tention  wherever  he  went.  Had  he  met  Royson  he  would  have  killed 
him  without  a  word,  but  as  he  walked  he  did  a  great  deal  of  thinking. 
He  had  no  friend  in  the  city.  The  nature  of  this  attack  was  such 
that  few  people  would  care  to  second  him.  The  younger  Montjoy  was 
away  and  he  was  unwilling  to  set  foot  in  the  colonel's  house  again. 
Through  him,  Edward  Morgan,  however  innocently  it  may  be,  had 
come  the  fatal  blow. 

He  ran  over  the  list  of  acquaintances  he  had  formed  among  the 
younger  men.  They  were  not  such  as  pleased  him  in  this  issue,  for 
a  strong,  clear  head,  a  man  of  good  judgment  and  good  balance,  a 
determined  man,  was  needed. 

Then  there  came  to  his  memory  the  face  of  one  whom  he  had  met 
at  supper  his  first  night  in  town — the  quiet,  dignified  Barksdale.  He 
sought  this  man's  office.  Barksdale  was  the  organizer  of  a  great  rail 
road  in  process  of  construction.  His  reception  of  Edward  was  no 
more  nor  less  than  would  have  been  accorded  under  ordinary  circum 
stances.  Had  he  come  on  the  day  before  he  would  have  been  greeted 
as  then. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Morgan?  Be  seated,  sir."  This  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand.  Then,  "What  can  I  do  for  you?''  His  manner  affected 
Edward  in  the  best  way;  he  began  to  feel  the  business  atmosphere. 

"I  have  called,  Mr.  Barksdale,  upon  a  personal  matter  and  to  ask 
your  assistance.  I  suppose  you  have  read  to-day's  extra?" 

"I  have." 

"My  first  inclination,  after  fully  weighing  the  intent  and  effect  of 
that  famous  publication,"  said  Edward,  "was  to  seek  and  kill  the 
author.  For  this  purpose  I  have  searched  the  town.  Royson  is  not 
to  be  found.  I  am  so  nearly  a  stranger  here  that  I  am.  forced  to  come 
to  my  acquaintances  for  assistance,  and  now  I  ask  that  you  will  ad 
vise  me  as  to  my  next  proceeding." 

"Demand  a  retraction  and  apology  at  once  I" 


HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN        97 

"And  if  it  is  refused?'' 

"Challenge  him!" 

"If  he  refuses  to  fight?" 

"Punish  him.    That  is  all  you  can  do." 

"Will  you  make  the  demand  for  me — will  you  act  for  me?" 

Barksdale  reflected  a  moment  and  then  said:  "Do  not  misunder 
stand  my  hesitation;  it  is  not  based  upon  the  publication,  nor  upon 
unwillingness  to  serve  you.  I  am  considering  the  complications  which 
may  involve  others;  I  must,  in  fact,  consult  others  before  I  can  reply. 
In  the  meantime  will  you  be  guided  by  me?" 

"I  will." 

"You  are  armed  and  contemplating  a  very  unwise  act.  Leave  your 
weapon  here  and  take  a  hack  home  and  remain  there  until  I  call.  It 
is  now  3:30  o'clock.  I  will  be  there  at  8.  If  I  do  not  act  for  you 
I  will  suggest  a  friend,  for  this  matter  should  not  lie  over-night. 
But  under  no  circumstances  can  I  go  upon  the  field;  my  position  here 
involves  interests  covering  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  invested 
funds,  which  I  have  induced.  Dueling  is  clearly  out  of  vogue  in  this 
country  and  clearly  illegal.  For  the  president  of  a  railroad  to  go  pub 
licly  into  a  duel  and  deliberately  break  the  law  would  lessen  public 
confidence  in  the  north  in  both  him  and  his  business  character  and 
affect  the  future  of  his  enterprise,  the  value  of  its  stocks  and  bondte. 
You  admit  the  reasonableness  of  this,  do  you  not?" 

"I  do.  There  is  my  weapon !  I  will  expect  you  at  8.  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Barksdale." 

The  hours  wore  slowly  away  at  home.  Edward  studied  his  features 
in  the  cheval  glass;  he  could  not  find  in  them  the  slightest  resemblance 
to  the  woman  in  the  picture.  He  had  not  erred  in  that.  The  absence 
of  any  portrait  of  John  Morgan  prevented  his  making  a  comparsion 
there.  He  knew  from  descriptions  given  by  Eldridge  that  he  was  not 
very  like  him  in  form  or  in  any  way  that  he  could  imagine,  but  fam 
ily  likeness  is  an  elusive  fact.  Two  people  will  resemble  each  other, 
although  they  may  differ  in  features  taken  in  detail. 

He  went  to  Gerald's  room,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse.  Gerald 
was  demonstrating  one  of  his  theories  concerning  mind  pictures  and 
found  in  the  professor  a  smiling  and  tolerant  listener. 

He  was  saying:  "Now,  let  us  suppose  that  from  youth  up  a  child 
has  looked  into  its  mother's  face,  felt  her  touch,  heard  her  voice; 
that  his  senses  carried  to  that  forming  brain  their  sensations,  each 
nerve  touching  the  brain,  and  with  minute  force  setting  up  day  by  day, 


98  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

month  by  month,  and  year  by  year  a  model.  Yes,  go  back  further 
and  remember  that  this  was  going  on  before  the  child  was  a  distinct 
individual;  we  have  the  creative  force  in  both  stages!  Tell  me,  is  it 
impossible  then  that  this  little  brain  shall  grow  into  the  likeness  it 
carries  as  its  most  serious  impression,  and  that  forced  to  the  effort 
would  on  canvas  or  in  its  posterity  produce  the  picture  it  has  made " 

"How  can  you  distinguish  the  mind  picture  from  the  memory  picture? 
What  is  the  difference?" 

"Not  easily,  but  if  I  can  produce  a  face  which  comes  to  me  in  my 
dreams,  which  haunts  my  waking  hours,  which  is  with  me  always,  the 
face  of  one  I  have  never  seen,  it  must  come  to  me  as  a  mind  picture; 
and  if  that  picture  is  the  feminine  of  my  own,  have  I  not  reason  to 
believe  that  it  stands  for  the  creative  power  from  which  I  sprang? 
Such  a  picture  as  this." 

He  drew  a  little  curtain  aside  and  on  the  wall  shone  the  fair  face 
of  a  woman;  the  face  from  the  church  sketch,  but  robbed  of  its  terror, 
the  counterpart  of  the  little  painting  upstairs.  The  professor  looked 
grave,  but  Edward  gazed  on  it  in  awe. 

"Now  a  simple  brain  picture,''  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper;  "draw 
me  the  face  of  John  Morgan." 

The  artist  made  not  more  than  twenty  strokes  of  the  crayon  upon 
the  blackboard. 

"Such  is  John  Morgan,  as  I  last  saw  him,"  said  Gerald;  "a  mere 
photograph;  a  brain  picture!" 

Edward  gazed  from  one  to  the  other;  from  the  picture  to  the  artist 
astounded.  The  professor  had  put  on  his  glasses;  it  was  he  who  broke 
the  silence. 

"That  is  Herr  Abingdon,"  he  said.     Gerald  smiled  and  said: 

"That  is  John  Morgan." 

Without  a  word  Edward  left  the  room.  Under  an  assumed  name, 
deterred  from  open  recognition  by  the  sad  facts  of  the  son's  birth, 
his  father  had  watched  over  and  cherished  him.  No  wonder  the  letter 
had  come  back.  Abingdon  was  dead! 

The  front  door  was  open.  He  plunged  directly  into  the  arms  of 
Barksdale  as  he  sought  the  open  air.  Barksdale  was  one  of  those 
men  who  seem  to  be  without  sentiment,  because  they  have  been  trained 
by  circumstances  to  look  at  facts  from  a  business  standpoint  only. 
Yet  the  basis  of  his  whole  life  was  sentiment. 

In  the  difficulty  that  had  arisen  his  quick  mind  grasped  at  once  the 
situation.  He  knew  Royson  and  was  sure  that  he  shielded  himself 


HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN  99 

behind  some  collateral  fact,  not  behind  the  main  truth.  In  the  first 
place  he  was  hardly  in  position  to  know  anything  of  Morgan's  history 
more  than  the  general  public  would  have  known.  In  the  second,  he 
would  not  have  dared  to  use  it  under  any  circumstances  if  those  cir 
cumstances  did  not  protect  him.  What  were  these?  First  there  was 
Morgan's  isolation;  only  one  family  could  be  said  to  be  intimate  with 
him,  and  they  could  not,  on  account  of  the  younger  Montjoy,  act  for 
Edward.  The  single  controlling  idea  that  thrust  itself  into  Barks- 
dale's  mind  was  the  proposition  that  Royson  did  not  intend  to  fight. 

Then  the  position  of  the  Montjoy  family  flashed  upon  him.  The 
blow  had  been  delivered  to  crush  the  colonel  politically  and  upon  a 
man  who  was  his  unselfish  ally.  Owing  to  the  nature  of  the  attack 
Col.  Montjoy  could  ask  no  favors  of  Royson,  and  owing  to  the  rela 
tionship,  he  could  not  proceed  against  him  in  Morgan's  interest.  He 
could  neither  act  for  nor  advise,  and  in  the  absence  of  Col.  Montjoy, 
who  else  co.uld  be  found? 

Before  replying  to  Edward,  a  plan  of  action  occurred  to  him.  When 
he  sent  that  excited  individual  home  he  went  direct  to  Royson's  office. 
He  found  the  door  open  and  that  gentleman  serenely  engaged  in  writ 
ing.  Even  at  this  point  he  was  not  deceived;  he  knew  that  his  ap 
proach  had  been  seen,  as  had  Edward's,  and  preparations  made 
accordingly. 

Royson  had  been  city  attorney  and  in  reality  the  tool  of  a  ring. 
His  ambition  was  boundless.  Through  friends  he  had  broached  a  sub 
ject  very  dear  to  him;  he  desired  to  become  counsel  for  the  large 
corporations  that  Barksdale  represented,  and  there  was  a  surprised 
satisfaction  in  his  tones  as  he  welcomed  the  railroad  president  and 
gave  him  a  seat. 

Barksdale  opened  the  conversation  on  this  line  and  asked  for  a  writ 
ten  opinion  upon  a  claim  of  liability  in  a  recent  accident.  He  went 
further  and  stated  that  perhaps  later  Royson  might  be  relied  upon 
frequently  in  such  cases.  The  town  was  talking  of  nothing  else  at 
that  time  but  the  Royson  card.  It  was  natural  that  Barksdale  should 
refer  to  it. 

"A  very  stiff  communication,  that  of  yours,  about  Mr.  Morgan," 
he  said,  carelessly;  "it  will  probably  be  fortunate  for  you  if  your  in 
formant  is  not  mistaken." 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  said  Royson,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  glad 
that  the  subject  had  been  brought  up.  "It  does  seem  a  rough  card  to 
write,  but  I  have  reason  to  think  there  was  no  better  way  out  of  a 


100  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

very  ugly  complication." 

"The  name  of  your  informant  will  be  demanded,  of  course.'' 

"Yes,  but  I  shall  not  give  it!" 

"Then  will  come  a  challenge." 

"Hardly!"  Royson  arose  and  closed  the  door.  "If  you  have  a  few 
moments  and  do  not  mind  hearing  this,  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence 
the  whole  business.  Who  would  be  sought  to  make  a  demand  upon 
me  for  the  name  of  my  informant?" 

"One  of  the  Montjoys  naturally,  but  your  relationship  barring  them 
they  would  perhaps  find  Mr.  Morgan  a  second." 

"But  suppose  that  I  prove  conclusively  that  the  information  came 
from  a  member  of  the  Montjoy  family?  What  could  they  do?  Under 
the  circumstances  which  have  arisen  their  hands  are  tied.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I  am  the  only  one  that  can  protect  them.  If  the  matter  came 
to  that  point,  as  a  last  resort  I  could  refuse  to  fight,  for  the  reason 
given  in  the  letter." 

Barksdale  was  silent.  The  whole  devilish  plot  flashed  upon  him.  He 
knew  in  advance  the  person  described  as  a  member  of  the  Montjoy 
family,  and  he  knew  the  base  motives  of  the  man  who  at  that  moment 
was  dishonoring  him  with  his  confidence.  His  blood  boiled  within 
him.  Cool  and  calm  as  he  was  by  nature,  his  face  showed  emotion  as 
he  arose  and  said: 

"I  think  I  understand.'' 

Royson  stood  by  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob,  after  his  visitor 
had  gone. 

"It  was  a  mistake;  a  great  mistake,"  he  said  to  himself  in  a  whisper. 
"I  have  simply  acted  the  fool!" 

Barksdale  went  straight  to  a  friend  upon  whose  judgment  he  relied 
and  laid  the  matter  before  him.  Together  they  selected  three  of  the 
most  honorable  and  prominent  men  in  the  city,  friends  of  the  Montjoys, 
and  submitted  it  to  them. 

The  main  interest  was  now  centered  in  saving  the  Montjoy  family. 
Edward  had  become  secondary.  An  agreement  was  reached  upon 
Barksdale's  suggestion  and  all  was  now  complete  unless  the  aggrieved 
party  should  lose  his  case  in  the  correspondence  about  to  ensue. 

Barksdale  disguised  his  surprise  when  he  assisted  Edward  at  the 
door  to  recover  equilibrium. 

"I  am  here  sir,  as  I  promised,"  he  said,  "but  the  complications  ex 
tend  further  than  I  knew.  I  now  state  that  I  cannot  act  for  you  in 


HOW  THE   CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN  101 

any  capacity  and  ask  that  I  be  relieved  of  my  promise."  Edward 
bowed  stiffly. 

"You  are  released." 

"There  is  but  one  man  in  this  city  who  can  serve  you  and  bring 
about  a  meeting.  Gerald  Morgan  must  bear  your  note!''  Edward 
repeated  the  name.  He  could  not  grasp  the  idea.  "Gerald  Morgan," 
said  Barksdale  again.  "He  will  not  need  to  go  on  the  field.  Good 
night.  And  if  that  fails  you  here  is  your  pistol;  you  are  no  longer 
under  my  guidance.  But  one  word  more — my  telephone  is  280;  if 
during  the  night  or  at  any  time  I  can  advise  you,  purely  upon  formal 
grounds,  summon  me.  In  the  meantime  see  to  it  that  your  note  does 
not  demand  the  name  of  Royson's  informant.  Do  not  neglect  that. 
The  use  he  has  made  of  his  information  must  be  made  the  basis  of 
the  quarrel;  if  you  neglect  this  your  case  is  lost.  Good-night." 

The  thought  flashed  into  Edward's  mind  then  that  the  world  was 
against  him.-  This  man  was  fearful  of  becoming  responsible  himself. 
He  had  named  Gerald.  It  was  a  bruised  and  slender  reed,  but  he 
would  lean  upon  it,  even  if  he  crushed  it  in  the  use.  He  returned  to 
the  wing-room. 

"Professor,"  he  said,  "you  know  that  under  no  possible  circumstances 
would  I  do  you  a  discourtesy,  so  when  I  tell  you,  as  now,  that  for 
to-night  and  possibly  a  day,  we  a~re  obliged  to  leave  you  alone,  you 
will  understand  that  some  vital  matter  lies  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"My  young  friend,''  exclaimed  that  gentleman,  "go  as  long  as  you 
please.  I  have  a  little  world  of  my  own,  you  know,"  he  smiled  cheer 
fully,  "in  which  I  am  always  amused.  Gerald  has  enlarged  it.  Go 
and  come  when  you  can;  here  are  books — what  more  does  one  need?" 
Edward  bowed  slightly. 

"Gerald,  follow  me."  Gerald,  without  a  word,  laid  aside  his  crayon 
and  obeyed.  He  stood  in  the  library  a  moment  later  looking  with 
tremulous  excitement  upon  the  man  who  had  summoned  him  so  ab 
ruptly.  By  reflection  he  was  beginning  to  share  the  mental  disturb 
ance.  His  frail  figure  quivered  and  he  could  not  keep  erect. 

"Read  that!"  said  Edward,  handing  him  the  paper.  He  took  the 
sheet  and  read.  When  he  finished  he  was  no  longer  trembling,  but 
to  the  astonishment  of  Edward,  very  calm.  A  look  of  weariness  rested 
upon  his  face. 

"Have  you  killed  him?''  he  asked,  laying  aside  the  paper,  his  mind 
at  once  connecting  the  incident  of  the  pistol  with  this  one. 

"No,  he  is  in  hiding." 


102  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Have  you  challenged  him?" 

"No!  My  God,  can  you  not  understand?  I  am  without  friends! 
The  whole  city  believes  the  story."  A  strange  expression  came  upon 
the  face  of  Gerald. 

"We  must  challenge  him  at  once,"  he  said.  "I  am,  of  course,  the 
proper  second.  I  must  ask  you  in  the  first  place  to  calm  yourself. 
The  records  must  be  perfect."  He  seated  himself  at  a  desk  and  pre 
pared  to  write.  Edward  was  walking  the  room.  He  came  and  stood 
by  his  side. 

"Do  not  demand  the  name  of  his  informant,''  he  said;  "make  the 
publication  and  circulation  of  the  letter  the  cause  of  our  grievance." 

"Of  course,"  was  the  reply.  The  letter  was  written  rapidly.  "Sign 
it  if  you  please,"  said  Gerald.  Edward  read  the  letter  and  noticed 
that  it  was  written  smoothly  and  without  a  break.  He  signed  it. 
Gerald  had  already  rung  for  the  buggy  and  disappeared.  "Wait  here," 
he  had  said,  "until  I  return.  In  the  meantime  do  not  converse  with 
anyone  upon  this  subject."  The  thought  that  flashed  upon  the  mind 
of  the  man  left  in  the  drawing-room  was  that  the  race  courage  had 
become  dominant,  and  for  the  time  being  was  superior  to  ill-health, 
mental  trouble  and  environment.  It  was  in  itself  a  confirmation  of 
the  cruel  letter.  The  manhood  of  Albert  Evan  had  become  a  factor 
in  the  drama. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 

Col.  Mont  joy  was  apprised  of  the  unexpected  result  in  the  backwoods 
at  an  early  hour.  He  read  the  announcement  quietly  and  went  oix 
his  usual  morning  ride  undisturbed.  Then  through  the  family  spread 
the  news  as  the  other  members  made  their  appearance. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  said,  gently:  "All  happens  for  the  best.  If  Mr.  Mont- 
joy  had  been  elected  he  would  have  been  exposed  for  years  to  the 
Washington  climate,  and  he  is  not  very  well  at  any  time.  He  com 
plained  of  his  heart  several  times  last  night.'1 

But  Mary  went  off  and  had  a  good  cry.  She  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  the  slightest  affront  to  her  stately  father.  She  felt  bet- 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY  103 

ter  after  her  cry  and  kissed  the  old  gentleman  as  he  came  in  to  break 
fast. 

"I  see  you  have  all  heard  the  news,"  he  said,  cheerily.  "Well,  it 
lifts  a  load  from  me.  I  spent  four  very  trying  years  up  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Washington,  and  I  am1  not  well  disposed  toward  the  locality. 
I  have  done  my  duty  to  the  fullest  extent  in  this  matter.  The  people 
who  know  me  have  given  me  an  overwhelming  indorsement,  and  I 
have  been  beaten  only  by  people  who  do  not  know  me!  Swearingen 
will  doubtless  make  a  good  representative,  after  all.  I  am  sorry  for 
Evan,"  he  added,  laughing-  "It  will  be  news  to  him  to  find  out  that 
the  old  Fire-Eaters  have  been  worsted  at  last."  He  went  to  breakfast 
with  his  arms  around  wife  and  daughter.  "All  the  honors  of  public 
life  cannot  compensate  a  man  for  separation  from  his  home,"  he  said, 
"and  Providence  knows  it." 

Annie  was  silent  and  anxious.  She  made  a  feeble  effort  to  sympa 
thize  with  the  defeated,  but  with  poor  success.  During  the  morning 
she  started  at  every  sound  and  went  frequently  to  the  front  door. 
She  knew  her  cousin,  and  something  assured  her  that  his  hand  was 
in  this  mischief.  How  would  it  affect  her?  In  her  room  she  laughed 
triumphantly. 

"Vain  fools!"  she  exclaimed;  "let  them  stay  where  they  belong!'' 
In  the  afternoon  there  was  the  sound  of  buggy  wheels,  and  a  servant 
brought  to  the  veranda,  where  they  were  sitting,  a  package.  Adjust 
ing  his  glasses,  the  colonel  opened  it  to  find  one  of  the  extras.  At  the 
head  of  this  was  written:  "Thinking  it  probable  that  it  may  be  im 
portant  for  this  to  reach  you  to-day,  and  fearing  it  might  not  other 
wise,  I  send  it  by  messenger  in  buggy.  Use  them  as  you  desire."  To 
this  was  signed  the  name  of  a  friend. 

Annie,  who  watched  the  colonel  as  he  read,  saw  his  face  settle  into 
sternness,  and  then  an  expression  of  anxiety  overspread  it.  "Anything 
serious,  Norton?"  It  was  the  voice  of  his  wife,  who  sat  knitting. 

"A  matter  connected  with  the  election  calls  me  to  town,"  he  said; 
"I  hope  it  will  be  the  last  time.  I  shall  go  in  with  the  driver  who  brought 
the  note."  He  went  inside  and  made  his  few  arrangements  and  depart 
ed  hurriedly.  After  he  was  gone,  Annie  picked  up  the  paper-  from 
the  hail  table,  where  he  had  placed  it,  and  read  the  fatal  announce 
ment.  Although  frightened,  she  could  scarcely  conceal  her  exultation. 
Mary  was  passing;  she  thrust  the  paper  before  her  eyes  and  said: 
"Read  that!  So  much"  for  entertaining  strangers!" 

Mary  read.    The  scene  whirled  about  her,  and  but  for  the  knowledge 


104  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

that  her  suffering  was  bringing  satisfaction  to  the  woman  before  her 
she  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor.  She  saw  in  the  gleeful  eyes,  gleam 
ing  upon  her,  something  of  the  truth.  With  a  desperate  effort  she 
restrained  herself!  and  the  furious  words  that  had  rushed  to  her  lips, 
and  laid  aside  the  paper  with  unutterable  scorn  and  dignity. 

"The  lie  is  too  cheap  to  pass  anywhere  except  in  the  backwoods," 
was  all  she  said. 

A  smile  curled  the  thin  lips  of  the  other  as  she  witnessed  the  des 
perate  struggle  of  the  girl.  The  voice  of  Col.  Montjoy,  who  had  re 
turned  to  the  gate,  was  heard  calling  to  Mary: 

"Daughter,  bring  the  paper  from  the  hall  table." 

She  carried  it  to  him.  Something  in  her  pale  face  caused  him  to 
ask:  ''Have  you  read  it,  daughter?" 

She  nodded  her  head.  He  was  instantly  greatly  concerned  and  be 
gan  some  rambling  explanation  about  campaign  lies  and  political  meth 
ods.  But  he  could  not  disguise  the  fact  that  he  was  shocked  beyond 
expression.  She  detained  him  but  a  moment.  Oh,  wonderful  power 
of  womanly  intuition! 

"Father,"  she  said  faintly,  "be  careful  what  you  do.  The  whole 
thing  originated  back  yonder,"  nodding  her  head  toward  the  house. 
She  had  said  it,  and  now  her  eyes  blazed  defiance.  He  looked  upon  her 
in  amazement,  not  comprehending,  but  the  matter  grew  clearer  as 
he  thought  upon  it. 

Arriving  in  the  city  he  was  prepared  for  anything.  He  went  direct 
to  Roy  son's  office,  and  that  gentleman  seeing  him  enter  smiled.  The 
visit  was  expected  and  desired.  He  bowed  formally,  however,  and 
moving  a  chair  forward  locked  the  door.  Darkness  had  just  fallen, 
but  the  electric  light  outside  the  window  was  sufficient  for  an  inter 
view;  neither  seemed  to  care  for  more  light. 

"Amos,''  said  the  old  man,  plunging  into  the  heart  of  the  subject, 
"you  have  done  a  shameful  and  a  cruel  thing,  and  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  so  and  insist  upon  your  righting  the  wrong.  You  know  me  too 
well  to  suspect  that  personal  reasons  influence  me  in  the  least.  As  far 
as  I  am  concerned  the  wrong  cannot  be  righted,  and  I  would  not  pur 
chase  nor  ask  a  personal  favor  from  you.  The  man  you  have  insulted 
so  grievously  is  a  stranger  and  has  acted  the  part  of  a  generous  friend 
to  those  who,  although  you  may  not  value  the  connection,  are  closely 
bound  to  you.  In  the  name  of  God,  how  could  you  do  it?"  He  was 
too  full  of  indignation  to  proceed,  and  he  had  need  of  coolness. 

The  other  did  not  move  nor  give  the  slightest  evidence  of  feeling. 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY  105 

He  had  this  advantage;  the  part  he  was  acting  had  been  carefully 
planned  and  rehearsed.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  said: 

"You  should  realize,  Col.  Montjoy,  that  I  have  acted  only  after  a 
calm1  deliberation,  and  the  matter  is  not  one  to  be  discussed  excitedly. 
I  cannot  refuse  to  talk  with  you  about  it,  but  it  is  a  cold-blooded  mat 
ter  of  policy  only."  The  manner  and  tone  of  the  speaker  chilled  the 
elder  to  the  heart.  Royson  continued :  "As  for  myself  and  you — well, 
it  was  an  open,  impersonal  fight.  You  know  my  ambition;  it  was  as 
laudable  as  yours.  I  have  worked  for  years  to  keep  in  the  line  of 
succession;  I  could  not  be  expected  to  sit  silent  and  while  losing  my 
whole  chance  see  my  friend  defeated.  All  is  fair  in  love  and  war — 
and  politics.  I  have  used  such  weapons  as  came  to  my  hand,  and  the 
last  I  used  only  when  defeat  was  certain." 

Controlling  himself  with  great  effort,  Col.  Montjoy  said: 

"You  certainly  cannot  expect  the  matter  to  end  here!" 

"How  can  it  proceed?"     A  slight  smile  lighted  the  lawyer's  face. 

"A  demand  will  be  made  upon  you  for  your  authority." 

"Who  will  make  it — you?" 

A  light  dawned  upon  the  elder.  The  cool  insolence  of  the  man  was 
more  than  he  could  endure. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  rising.  "As  God  is  my  judge,  if  he  comes  to 
me  I  shall  make  the  demand !  Ingratitude  was  never  charged  against 
one  of  my  name.  This  man  has  done  me  a  lasting  favor;  he  shall  not 
suffer  for  need  of  a  friend,  if  I  have  to  sacrifice  every  connection  in 
the  world." 

Again  the  lawyer  smiled. 

"I  think  it  best  to  remember,  colonel,  that  we  can  reach  no  sensible 
conclusion  without  cool  consideration.  Let  me  ask  you,  then,  for  in 
formation.  If  I  should  answer  that  the  charges  in  my  letter,  so  far 
as  Morgan's  parentage  is  concerned,  were  based  upon  statements  made 
by  a  member  of  your  immediate  family,  what  would  be  your  course?'' 

"I  should  denounce  you  as  a  liar  and  make  the  quarrel  my  own." 

Royson  grew  pale,  but  made  no  reply.  He  walked  to  his  desk,  and 
taking  from  it  a  letter  passed  it  to  the  angry  man.  He  lighted  the 
gas,  while  the  colonel's  trembling  hands  were  arranging  his  glasses, 
and  stood  silent,  waiting.  The  note  was  in  a  feminine  hand.  Col. 
Montjoy  read: 

"My  Dear  Amos:  I  have  been  thinking  over  the  information  I 
gave  you  touching  the  base  parentage  of  the  man  Morgan,  and  I  am 
not  sure  but  that  it  should  be  suppressed  so  far  as  the  public  is  con- 


106  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

cerned,  and  brought  home  here  in  another  way.  The  facts  cannot  be 
easily  proved,  and  the  affair  would  create  a  great  scandal,  in  which 
I,  as  a  member  of  this  absurd  family,  would  be  involved.  You  should 
not  use  it,  at  any  rate,  except  as  a  desperate  measure,  and  then  only 
upon  the  understanding  that  you  are  to  become  responsible,  and 
that  I  am  in  no  way  whatever  to  be  brought  into  the  matter.  Yours 
in  haste,  "Annie." 

The  reader  let  the  paper  fall  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
a  moment.  Then  he  arose  with  dignity. 

"I  did  not  imagine,  sir,  that  the  human  heart  was  capable  of  such 
villainy  as  yours  has  developed.  You  have  stabbed  a  defenseless 
stranger  in  the  back;  have  broken  faith  with  a  poor,  jealous,  weak 
woman,  and  have  outraged  and  humiliated  me,  to  whom  you  are  per 
sonally  indebted  financially  and  otherwise.  Unlock  your  door!  I 
have  but  one  honorable  course  left.  I  shall  publish  a  card  in  the  morn 
ing's  paper  stating  that  your  letter  was  based  upon  statements  made 
by  a  member  of  my  family;  that  they  are  untrue  in  every  respect,  and 
offer  a  public  apology." 

"Will  you  name  the  informant?" 

"What  is  that  to  you,  sir?'' 

"A  great  deal!  If  you  do  name  her,  I  shall  reaffirm  the  truth  of 
her  statements,  as  in  the  absence  of  her  husband  I  am  her  nearest 
relative.  If  you  do  not  name  her,  then  the  public  may  guess  wrong. 
I  think  you  will  not  do  so  rash  a  thing,  colonel.  Keep  out  of  the  matter. 
Circumstances  give  you  a  natural  right  to  hands  off!" 

"And  if  I  do!!'  exclaimed  the  old  man,  passionately,  "who  will  act 
for  him?"  The  unpleasant  smile  returned  to  the  young  man's  lips. 

"No  one,  I  apprehend!" 

Montjoy  could  have  killed  him  as  he  stood.  He  felt  the  ground  slip 
ping  from  under  him  as  he,  too,  realized  the  completeness  and  coward 
liness  of  the  plot. 

"We  shall  see;  we  shall  see!"  he  said,  gasping  and  pressing  his  hand 
to  his  heart.  "We  shall  see,  Mr.  Royson!  There  is  a  just  God  who 
looks  down  upon  the  acts  of  all  men,  and  the  right  prevails!'' 

Royson  bowed  mockingly  but  profoundly. 

"That  is  an  old  doctrine.  You  are  going,  and  there  is  just  one  thing 
left  unsaid.  At  the  risk  of  offending  you  yet  more,  I  am  going  to  say 
it." 

"I  warn  you,  then,  to  be  careful;  there  is  a  limit  to  human  endur 
ance  and  I  have  persistently  ascribed  to  me  the  worst  of  motives  in 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY  107 

this  matter,  but  I  have  as  much  pride  in  my  family  as  you  in  yours. 
There  are  but  few  of  us  left.  Will  you  concede  that  if  there  is  danger, 
in  her  opinion,  that  she  will  become  the  sister-in-law  of  this  man,  and 
that  she  believed  the  information  she  has  given  to  be  true,  will  you 
concede  that  her  action  is  natural,  if  not  wise,  and  that  a  little  more 
selfishness  may  after  all  be  mixed  in  mine?"  Gradually  his  mean 
ing  dawned  upon  his  hearer.  For  a  second  he  was  dumb.  And  all 
this  was  to  be  public  property! 

"I  think,"  said  Royson,  coolly  opening  the  door,  "it  will  be  well 
for  you  to  confer  with  friends  before  you  proceed,  and  perhaps  leave 
to  others  the  task  of  righting  the  wrongs  of  strangers  who  have  taken 
advantage  of  your  hospitality  to  offer  the  deadliest  insult  possible  in 
this  southern  country.  It  may  not  be  well  to  arm  this  man  with  the 
fact  that  you  vouch  for  him;  he  may  answer  you  in  the  future." 

He  drew  back  from  the  door  suddenly,  half  in  terror.  A  man,  pale 
as  death  itself,  with  hair  curling  down  upon  his  shoulders,  and  eyes 
that  blazed  under  the  face  before  him,  whose  eyes  never  for  a  moment 
left  his,  broke  the  seal.  Then  he  read  aloud: 

"Mr.  Amos  Royson,  I  inclose  for  your  inspection  a  clipping  from 
an  extra  issue  this  day,  and  ask  if  you  are  the  author  of  the  letter 
it  contains.  If  you  answer  yes,  I  hereby  demand  of  you  an  uncon 
ditional  retraction  of  and  apology  for  the  same,  for  publication  in 
the  paper  which  contained  the  original.  This  will  be  handed  to  you 
by  my  friend,  Gerald  Morgan. 

"Edward  Morgan." 

Royson  recovered  himself  with  evident  difficulty. 

"This  is  not  customary — he  does  not  demand  the  name  of  my  in 
formant!''  he  said. 

"We  do  not  care  a  fig,  sir,  for  your  informant.  The  insult  rests 
in  the  use  you  have  made  of  a  lie,  and  we  propose  to  hold  you  re 
sponsible  for  it!" 

Gerald  spoke  the  words  like  a  sweet-voiced  girl  and  returned  the 
stare  of  his  opponent  with  insolent  coolness.  The  colonel  had  paused, 
as  he  perceived  the  completeness  of  the  lawyer's  entrapping.  Amos 
could  not  use  his  cousin's  name  before  the  public  and  the  Montjoys 
were  saved  from  interference.  He  was  cornered.  The  colonel  pas 
sed  out  hurriedly  with  an  affectionate  smile  to  Gerald,  saying: 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen;  these  are  matters  which  you  will  prob 
ably  wish  to  discuss  in  private.  Mr.  Royson,  I  had  friends  wiser 
than  myself  at  work  upon  this  matter,  and  I  did  not  know  it." 


108  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XX. 
IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS. 

It  was  not  sunset  when  Col.  Montjoy  left  hime.  Mary  went  to 
her  room  and  threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  sick  at  heart  and  anxious 
beyond  the  power  of  weeping.  Unadvised,  ignorant  of  the  full  sig 
nificance  of  the  information  that  had  been  conveyed  to  them,  she 
conjured  up  a  world  of  danger  for  her  father  and  for  Edward.  Trag 
edy  was  in  the  air  she  breathed.  At  supper  she  was  laboring  under 
ill-concealed  excitement.  Fortunately  for  her,  the  little  mother  was 
not  present.  Sitting  in  her  room,  with  the  green  glasses  to  which 
she  had  been  reduced  by  the  progress  of  her  disease,  she  did  not  notice 
the  expression  of  the  daughter's  face  when  she  came  as  usual  to  look 
after  the  final  arrangement  of  her  mother's  comfort. 

By  8  o'clock  the  house  was  quiet.  Throwing  a  light  wrap  over  her 
shoulders  and  concealing  in  its  folds  her  father's  army  pistol,  Mary 
slipped  into  the  outer  darkness  and  whistled  softly.  A  great  shaggy 
dog  came  bounding  around  from  the  rear  and  leaped  upon  her.  She 
rested  her  hand  on  his  collar,  and  together  they  passed  into  the  ave 
nue.  Old  Isam  stood  there  and  by  him  the  pony  phaeton  and  mare. 

"Stay  up  until  I  return,  please,  Uncle  Isam,  and  be  sure  to  meet 
me  here!''  The  old  man  bowed. 

"I'll  be  hyar,  missy,"  he  said.    "Don't  you  want  me  to  go,  too?" 

"No,  thank  you;  I  am  going  to  Gen.  Evan's  and  you  must  stay  and 
look  after  things.  Nero  will  go  with  me."  The  dog  had  already 
leaped  into  the  vehicle.  She  sprang  in  also,  and  almost  noiselessly 
they  rolled  away  over  the  pine  straw. 

The  old  man  listened;  first  he  heard  the  dogs  bark  at  Rich's  then 
at  Manuel's  and  then  at  black  Henry's,  nearly  a  mile  away.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"Missy  got  somep'n  on  her  mind!  She  don't  make  no  hoss  move 
in  de  night  dat  way  for  nothin'!  Too  fast!  Too  fast!" 

He  went  off  to  his  cabin  and  sat  outside  to  smoke.  And  in  the  night 
the  little  mare  sped  away.  On  the  public  roads  the  gait  was  compar 
atively  safe,  and  she  responded  to  every  call  nobly.  The  unbroken 
shadows  of  the  roadside  glided  like  walls  of  gloom !  The  little  vehicle 
rocked  and  swayed,  and,  underneath,  the  wheels  sang  a  monotonous 
warning  rhyme. 


IN   THE   HANDS   OF    THEIR   FRIENDS  109 

Now  and  then  the  little  vehicle  fairly  leaped  from  tthe  ground, 
for  when  Norton,  a  year  previous,  had  bid  in  that  animal  at  a  blooded- 
stock  sale  in  Kentucky,  she  was  in  her  third  summer  and  carried  the 
blood  of  Wilkes  and  Rysdyk's  Hambletonian,  and  was  proud  of  it, 
as  her  every  motion  showed. 

The  little  mare  had  the  long  route  that  night,  but  at  last  she 
stood  before  the  doorway  of  the  Cedars.  The  general  was  descending 
the  steps  as  Mary  gave  Nero  the  lines. 

"What!     Mary—" 

He  feared  to  ask  the  question  on  his  lips.  She  was  full  of  excite 
ment,  and  her  first  effort  to  speak  was  a  dismal  failure. 

"Come!  Come!  Come!"  he  said,  in  that  descending  scale  of  voice 
which  seems  to  have  been  made  for  sympathy  and  encouragment. 
"Calm  yourself  first  and  talk  later."  He  had  his  arms  around  her 
now  and  was  ascending  the  steps.  "Sit  right  down  here  in  this  big 
chair;  there  you  are!" 

"You  have  not  heard,  then?"  she  said,  controlling  herself  with  su 
preme  effort. 

"About  your  father's  defeat?  Oh,  yes.  But  what  of  that?  There 
are  defeats  more  glorious  than  victories,  my  child.  You  will  find  that 
your  father  was  taken  advantage  of.  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"It  is  not  about  that,  sir — the  means  they  used!"  And  then, 
between  sobs,  she  told  him  the  whole  story.  He  made  no  reply,  no 
comment,  but  reaching  over  to  the  rail  secured  his  corn-cob  pipe  and 
filled  it.  As  he  struck  a  match  above  the  tobacco,  she  saw  that  his 
face  was  as  calm  as  the  candid  skies  of  June.  The  sight  gave  her 
courage. 

"Do  you  not  think  it  awful?"  she  ventured. 

"Awful?  Yes!  A  man  to  descend  to  such  depths  of  meanness  must 
have  suffered  a  great  deal  on  the  way.  I  am  sorry  for  Royson — sorry, 
indeed!" 

"But  Mr.  Morgan!''  she  exclaimed,  excitedly. 

"That  must  be  attended  to,"  he  said,  very  gravely.  "Mr.  Morgan 
has  placed  us  all  under  heavy  obligations,  and  we  must  see  him 
through." 

"You  must,  General;  you  must,  and  right  away!  They  have  sent 
for  poor  papa,  and  he  has  gone  to  town,  and  I — I — just  could  not  sleep, 
so  I  came  to  you."  He  laughed  heartily. 

"And  in  a  hurry!    Whew!     I  heard  the  mare's  feet  as  she  crossed 


110  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

the  bridge  a  mile  away.  You  did  just  right.  And  of  course  the  old 
general  is  expected  to  go  to  town  and  pull  papa  and  Mr.  Morgan  out 
of  the  mud,  and  straighten  out  things.  John!" 

"Put  the  saddle  on  my  horse  at  once.  And  now,  how  is  the  little 
mamma?"  he  asked,  gently. 

He  held  her  on  this  subject  until  the  horse  was  brought,  and  then 
they  rode  off  down  the  avenue,  the  general  following  and  rallying  the 
girl  upon  her  driving. 

"Don't  expect  me  to  hold  to  that  pace,"  he  said.  "I  once  crossed  a 
bridge  as  fast,  and  faster,  up  in  Virginia,  but  I  was  trying  to  beat 
the  bluecoats.  Too  old  now,  too  old." 

"But  you  will  get  there  in  time?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  yes;  they  will  be  consulting  and  sending  notes  and  raising 
points  all  night.  I  will  get  in  somewhere  along  the  line.  When  a  man 
starts  out  to  hunt  up  trouble  he  is  rarely  ever  too  late  to  find  it."  He 
saw  her  safely  to  where  Isam  was  waiting,  and  then  rode  on  to  the 
city.  He  realized  the  complication,  and  now  his  whole  thought  was 
to  keep  his  neighbor  from  doing  anything  rash.  It  did  occur  to  him 
that  there  might  be  a  street  tragedy,  but  he  shook  his  head  over 
this  when  he  remembered  Royson.  "He  is  too  much  of  a  schemer 
for  that,"  he  said.  "He  will  get  the  matter  into  the  hands  of  a  board 
of  honor."  The  old  gentleman  laughed  softly  to  himself  and  touched 
up  his  horse. 

In  the  meantime  affairs  were  drawing  to  a  focus  in  the  city.  After 
the  abrupt  departure  of  Gerald,  Royson  stood  alone,  holding  the  de 
mand  and  thinking.  An  anxious  expression  had  settled  upon  his  face. 
He  read  and  reread  the  curt  note,  but  could  find  no  flaw  in  it.  He  was 
to  be  held  responsible  for  the  publication;  that  was  the  injury.  He 
was  forced  to  confess  that  the  idea  was  sound.  There  was  now  no 
way  to  involve  the  Montjoys  and  let  them  hush  it  up.  He  had  ex 
pected  to  be  forced  to  withdraw  the  card  and  apologize,  but  not  until 
the  whole  city  was  informed  that  he  did  it  to  save  a  woman,  and  he 
would  have  been  placed  then  in  the  position  of ,  one  sacrificing  him 
self.  Now  that  such  refuge  was  impossible  he  could  not  even  escape 
by  giving  the  name  of  his  informant.  He  could  not  have  given  it  had 
there  been  a  demand. 

He  read  between  the  lines  that  his  authority  was  known;  that 
he  was  dealing  with  some  master  mind  and  that  he  had  been  out 
generaled  somewhere.  To  whom  had  he  talked?  To  no  one  except 


IN   THE   HANDS   OF   THEIR   FRIENDS  111 

Barksdale.  He  gave  vent  to  a  profane  estimate  of  himself  and  left 
the  office.  There  was  no  danger  now  of  a  street  assault. 

Amos  Royson  threw  himself  into  a  carriage  and  went  to  the  resi 
dence  of  Marsden  Thomas,  dismissing  the  vehicle.  The  family  of 
Marsden  Thomas  was  an  old  one,  and  by  reason  of  its  early  reputation 
in  politics  and  at  the  bar  had  a  sound  and  honorable  footing.  Mars 
den  was  himself  a  member  of  the  legislature,  a  born  politician,  cap 
able  of  anything  that  would  advance  his  fortune,  the  limit  only  be 
ing  the  dead-line  of  disgrace. 

He  had  tied  to  Royson,  who  was  slightly  his  elder,  because  of  his 
experience  and  influence. 

He  was  noted  for  his  scrupulous  regard  for  the  code  as  a  basis  of 
settlement  between  honorable  men,  and  was  generally  consulted  up 
on  points  of  honor. 

Secure  in  Thomas'  room,  Royson  went  over  the  events  of  the  day, 
including  Montjoy's  and  Gerald's  visits,  and  then  produced  the  de 
mand  that  had  been  served  upon  him. 

Thomas  had  heard  him  through  without  interruption.  When  Roy- 
son  described  the  entrance  of  Gerald,  with  the  unlooked-for  note,  a 
slight  smile  drew  his  lips;  he  put  aside  the  note,  and  said: 

"You  are  in  a  very  serious  scrape,  Amos;  I  do  not  see  how  you  can 
avoid  a  fight."  His  visitor  studied  him  intently. 

"You  must  help  me  out!  I  do  not  propose  to  fight."  Thomas 
gravely  studied  the  note  again. 

"Of  course,  you  know  the  object  of  the  publication,"  continued 
Royson;  "it  was  political.  Without  it  we  would  have  been  beaten. 
It  was  a  desperate  move;  I  had  the  information  and  used  it." 

"You  had  information,  then?  I  thought  the  whole  thing  was  hatch 
ed  up.  Who  gave  you  the  information?"  Royson  frowned. 

"My  cousin,  Mrs.  Mont  joy;  you  see  the  complication  now.  I  sup 
posed  that  no  one  but  the  Montjoys  knew  this  man  intimately,  and 
that  their  hands  would  be  tied!'' 

"Ah!"  The  exclamation  was  eloquent.  "And  the  young  man  had 
another  friend,  the  morphine-eater;  you  had  forgotten  him!"  Thomas 
could  not  restrain  a  laugh.  ROY  son  was  furious.  He  seized  his 
hat  and  made  a  feint  to  depart.  Thomas  kindly  asked  him  to  remain. 
It  would  have  been  cruel  had  he  failed,  for  he  knew  that  Royson  had 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  leaving. 

"Come  back  and  sit  down,  Amos.  You  do  us  all  an  injustice.  You 
played  for  the  credit  of  this  victory,  contrary  to  our  advice,  and  now 


112  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

you  have  the  hot  end  of  the  iron." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Roy  son,  reverting  to  the  note,  "is  there  anything  in 
that  communication  that  we  can  take  advantage  of?" 

"Nothing!  Morgan  might  have  asked  in  one  note  if  you  were  the 
author  of  the  published  letter  and  then  in  another  have  demanded  a 
retraction.  His  joining  the  two  is  not  material;  you  do  not  deny  the 
authorship." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence  he  continued:  "There  is  one  point 
I  ami  not  satisfied  upon.  I  am,  not  sure  but  that  you  can  refuse  upon 
the  ground  you  alleged — in  brief,  because  he  is  not  a  gentleman. 
Whether  or  not  the  burden  of  proof  would  be  upon  you  is  an  open 
question;  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  would  be;  a  man  is  not  called  upon 
in  the  south  to  prove  his  title  to  gentility.  All  southerners  with  whom 
we  associate  are  supposed  to  be  gentlemen,"  and  then  he  added, 
lazily  smiling,  "except  the  ladies;  and  it  is  a  pity  they  are  exempt. 
Mrs.  Montjoy  would  otherwise  be  obliged  to  hold  her  tongue!" 

Royson  was  white  with  rage,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Secretly  he 
was  afraid  of  Thomas,  and  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  in  the  event 
of  his  humiliation  or  death  Thomas  would  take  his  place. 

This  unpleasant  reflection  was  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  his  com 
panion. 

"Suppose  we  call  in  some  of  our  friends  and  settle  this  point."  The 
affair  was  getting  in  the  shape  desired  by  Royson,  and  he  eagerly 
consented.  Notes  were  at  once  dispatched  to  several  well-known 
gentlemen,  and  a  short  time  afterward  they  were  assembled  and  in 
earnest  conversation.  It  was  evident  that  they  disagreed. 

While  this  consulation  was  going  on  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door; 
a  servant  brought  a  card.  Gen.  Evan  had  called  to  see  Mr.  Thomas, 
but  learning  that  he  was  engaged  and  how,  had  left  the  note. 

Thomas  read  it  silently,  and  then  aloud: 

"Marsden  Thomas,  Esq. — Dear  Sir:  I  have  read  in  to-day's  paper 
the  painful  announcement  signed  by  Mr.  Royson,  and  have  come  into 
the  city  hoping  that  a  serious  difficulty  might  thereby  be  averted. 
To  assist  in  the  settlement  of  this  matter,  I  hereby  state  over  my 
own  signature  that  the  announcement  concerning  Edward  Morgan 
is  erroneous,  and  I  vouch  for  his  right  to  the  title  and  privileges  of 
a  gentleman.  Respectfully, 

"Albert  Evan." 

The  silence  that  followed  this  was  broken  by  one  of  the  older 
gentlemen  present. 


IN   THE    HANDS    OF    THEIR   FRIENDS  113 

"This  simplifies  matters  very  greatly,"  he  said.  "Without  the  clear 
est  and  most  positive  proof,  Mr.  Royson  must  retract  or  fight.'' 

They  took  their  departure  at  length,  leaving  Royson  alone  to  gaze 
upon  the  open  note.  Thomas,  returning,  found  him  in  the  act  of 
drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Royson,  "to  send  a  message  to  Annie.  She 
must,  she  shall  give  me  something  to  go  on.  I  will  not  sit  quietly 
by  and  be  made  a  sacrifice!" 

"Write  your  note;  I  will  send  it." 

"I  prefer  to  attend  to  it  myself!"    Thomas  shook  his  head. 

"If  you  leave  this  room  to-night  it  is  with  the  understanding  that 
I  am  no  longer  your  adviser.  Arrest  by  the  police  must  not,  shall 
not — 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate — " 

"Nothing!  But  I  shall  take  no  chances  with  the  name  of  Thomas!" 
said  the  other  proudly.  "You  are  excited;  a  word  let  fall — a  sus 
picion — and  we  would  be  disgraced!  Write  your  note;  I  shall  send  it. 
We  have  no  time  to  lose!"  Royson  threw  himself  down  in  front  of 
a  desk  and  wrote  rurriedly: 

"Annie:  I  am  cornered.  For  God's  sake  give  me  proofs  of  your 
statements  or  tell  me  where  to  get  them.  It  is  life  or  death;  don't 
fail  me.  "A.  R." 

He  sealed  and  addressed  this.  Thomas  rang  the  bell  and  to  the 
boy  he  said:  "How  far  is  it  to  Col.  Montjoy's?" 

"Seven   miles,   sah!" 

"How  quickly  can  you  go  there  and  back?'' 

"On  Pet?" 

"Yes." 

"One  hour  an'  a  half,  sah." 

"Take  this  note,  say  you  must  see  Mrs.  Norton  Montjoy,  Jr.,  In 
person,  on  important  matters,  and  deliver  it  to  her.  Here  is  a  $5  bill; 
if  you  are  back  in  two  hours,  you  need  not  return  it.  Go !" 

There  was  a  gleam  of  ivory  teeth  and  the  boy  hurried  away.  It 
was  a  wretched  wait,  that  hour  and  a  half.  The  answer  to  the  demand 
must  go  into  the  paper  that  night! 

One  hour  and  thirty-two  minutes  passed.  They  heard  the  horse 
in  the  street,  then  the  boy  upon  the  stairway.  He  dashed  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Mary  was  up  and  at  de  gate  when  I  got  deir!  Reck'n  she 
hear  Pet's  hoof  hit  de  hard  groun'  an'  hit  skeered  her.  I  tole  her 
what  you  say,  and  she  sen'  word  dat  Mrs.  Montjoy  done  gone  to  sleep. 


114  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

I  tell  her  you  all  mighty  anxious  for  to  get  dat  note;  dat  Mr.  Roy- 
son  up  here,  waitin',  an'  gentlemen  been  comnv  an'  goin'  all  night. 
She  took  de  note  in  den  and  putty  soon  she  bring  back  the  answer!" 

He  was  searching  his  pockets  as  he  rambled  over  his  experience, 
and  presently  the  note  was  found.  It  was  the  same  one  that  had  been 
sent  by  Royson,  and  across  the  back  was  written: 

"Mr.  Thomas:  I  think  it  best  not  to  awaken  Annie.  Papa  is  in 
town;  if  the  matter  is  of  great  importance  call  upon  him.  I  am  so 
certain  this  is  the  proper  course  that  it  will  be  useless  to  write  again 
or  call  in  person  to-night.  Respectfully,  "M.  M." 

He  passed  the  note  to  Royson  in  silence  and  saw  the  look  of  rage 
upon  his  face  as  he  tore  it  into  a  thousand  pieces. 

"Even  your  little  Montjoy  girl  seems  to  be  against  you,'1  he  said. 

"She  is!"  exclaimed  Royson;  "she  knew  that  my  note  to  Annie  was 
not  in  the  interest  of  Edward  Morgan,  and  she  is  fighting  for  him. 
She  will  follow  him  to  the  altar  or  the  grave!" 

"Ah,"  said  Thomas,  aside,  drawing  a  long  breath;  "'tis  the  old 
story,  and  I  thought  I  had  found  a  new  plot!  Well,"  he  continued 
aloud,  "what  next?" 

"It  shall  not  be  the  altar!  Conclude  the  arrangements;  I  am  at 
your  service!'' 

"He  will  stick,"  said  Thomas  to  himself;  "love  and  jealousy  are 
stronger  then  fear  and  ambition!" 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD." 

In  his  room  at  the  hotel  Col.  Montjoy  awaited  the  return  of  his 
friend  Evan,  who  had  gone  to  find  out  how,  as  he  expressed  it  the 
boys  were  getting  on  with  their  fight. 

"I  will  strike  the  trail  somewhere,"  he  said,  lightly.  But  he  was 
greatly  disturbed  over  Col.  Montjoy's  concern,  and  noticed  at  once 
the  bad  physical  effect  it  had  on  him.  His  policy  was  to  make  light 
of  the  matter,  but  he  knew  it  was  serious. 

To  force  Royson  to  back  down  was  now  his  object;  in  the  event 
of  that  failing,  to  see  that  Morgan  had  a  fair  show. 


THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD  115 

The  colonel  had  removed  his  shoes  and  coat  and  was  lying  on  the 
bed  when  Evan  returned.  "I  think  I  have  given  them  a  basis  of 
settlement,"  said  the  general.  "I  have  vouched  for  the  fact  that  the 
statements  in  Royson's  letter  are  erroneous.  Upon  my  declaration  he 
can  retract  and  apologize,  or  he  must  fight.  I  found  him  consulting 
with  Thomas  and  others,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  he  was  looking 
for  some  way  to  dodge." 

The  colonel  looked  at  him  in  surprise.     "But  how  could  you?" 

"Upon  my  faith  in  John  Morgan!  He  was  a  man  of  honor!  He 
would  never  have  left  his  property  to  this  man  and  put  him  upon 
the  community  if  there  had  been  a  cloud  upon  his  title  to  gentility," 
and  then  he  added,  with  emotion:  "A  man  who  was  willing  to  give 
his  daughter  to  a  friend  can  risk  a  great  deal  to  honor  that  friend's 
memory." 

"There  is  but  one  Albert  Evan  in  the  world,"  said  Montjoy,  after 
a  long  silence. 

The  general  was  getting  himself  a  glass  of  wine.  "Well,  there  is 
but  one  such  Montjoy,  for  that  matter,  but  we  two  old  fellows  lose 
time  sitting  up  to  pay  each  other  compliments!  There  is  much  to  be 
done.  I  am  going  out  to  see  Morgan;  he  is  so  new  here  he  may  need 
help !  You  stay  and  keep  quiet.  The  town  is  full  of  excitement  over 
this  affair,  and  people  watch  me  as  if  I  were  a  curiosity.  You  can 
study  on  politics  if  you  will;  consider  the  proposition  that  if  Royson 
retracts  we  are  entitled  to  another  trial  over  yonder  in  the  lost  county; 
that  or  we  will  threaten  them1  with  an  independent  race." 

"No!  I  am  too  gled  to  have  a  chance  to  stay  out  honorably.  I 
know  now  that  my  candidacy  was  a  mistake.  It  has  weakened  me 
here  fatally. 

Col.  Montjoy  placed  his  hand  over  his  heart  wearily.  The  general 
brought  him  the  glass  of  wine  he  held. 

"Nonsense!  Too  many  cigars!  Here's  to  long  life,  old  friend, 
and  to  the  gallant  Fire-Eaters."  He  laughed  lightly  over  his  re 
membrance  of  the  checkmate  he  had  accomplished,  buttoned  the  blue 
coat  over  his  broad  chest  and  started.  "I  am  going  now  to  look  in 
upon  my  outpost  and  see  what  arrangements  have  been  made  for 
the  night.  So  far  we  hold  the  strong  positions.  Look  for  me  about 
daylight!"  And,  lying  there  alone,  his  friend  drifted  back  in  thought 
to  Mary.  He  was  not  satisfied. 

The  door  stood  open  at  Ilexhurst  when  the  general  alighted.  There 
was  no  answer  to  his  summons;  he  entered  the  lighted  hall  and  went 


116  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

to  the  library.     Edward  was  sleeping  quietly  upon  a  lounge. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  general,  cheerily,  "asleep  on  guard!1'  Ed 
ward  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Gen.  Evan!" 

"Exactly;  and  as  no  one  answered  my  summons  to  surrender  I 
took  possession."  Apologizing,  Edward  drew  a  chair,  and  they  be 
came  seated. 

"Seriously,  my  young  friend,"  began  the  old  soldier.  "I  was  in 
the  city  to-night  and  have  learned  from  Col.  Montjoy  of  the  infamy 
perpetrated  upon  you.  My  days  of  warfare  are  over,  but  I  could 
not  sit  by  and  see  one  to  whom  we  all  owe  so  much  imposed  upon. 
Let  me  add,  also,  that  I  was  very  much  charmed  with  you,  Mr.  Mor 
gan.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  the  way  of  advice  and 
guidance  in  this  matter  kindly  command  me.  I  might  say  the  same 
thing  for  Montjoy,  who  is  at  the  hotel,  but  unfortunately,  as  you  may 
not  know,  his  daughter-in-law  is  Mr.  Royson's  cousin,  and  acting  upon 
my  advice  he  is  silent  until  the  necessity  for  action  arises.  I  know 
him  well  enough  to  add  that  you  can  rely  upon  his  sympathy,  and 
if  needed,  his  aid.  I  have  advised  him  to  take  no  action,  as  in  the 
first  place  he  is  not  needed,  and  in  the  second  it  may  bring  about  an 
estrangement  between  his  son  and  himself." 

Edward  was  very  grateful  and  expressed  himself  earnestly,  but 
his  head  was  in  a  whirl.  He  was  thinking  of  the  woman's  story,  and 
of  Gerald. 

"Such  a  piece  of  infamy  as  is  embraced  in  that  publication,"  said 
the  general,  when  finally  the  conversation  went  direct  to  the  heart  of 
the  trouble,  "was  never  equaled  in  this  state.  Have  they  replied  to 
your  note?' 

"Not  yet.    I  am  waiting  for  the  answer!" 

"And  your — cousin — is  he  here  to  receive  it?" 

"Gerald?     Yes,  he  is  here — that  is,  excuse  me,  I  will  see!" 

Somewhat  alarmed  over  the  possibility  of  Gerald's  absence,  he 
hurried  through  the  house  to  the  wing,  and  then  into  the  glass-room. 
Gerald  was  asleep.  The  inevitable  little  box  of  pellets  upon  his  table 
told  the  sad  story.  Edward  could  not  awaken  him. 

"It  is  unfortunate,  very,"  he  said,  re-entering  the  library  hurriedly, 
"but  Gerald  is  asleep  and  cannot  be  aroused.  The  truth  is,  he  is  a 
victim  of  opium.  The  poor  fellow  is  now  beyond  cure,  I  am  afraid; 
he  is  frail,  nervous,  excitable,  and  cannot  live  without  the  drug.  The 


THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD  117 

day  has  been  a  very  trying  one  for  him,  and  this  is  the  first  time  he 
has  been  out  in  years!'' 

"He  must  be  awakened,"  said  the  general.  "Of  course  he  cannot, 
in  the  event  that  these  fellows  want  to  fight,  go  on  the  field ;  and  then 
his  relationship!  But  to-night!  To-night  he  must  be  aroused!  Let 
me  go  with  you."  Edward  started  almost  in  terror. 

"It  might  not  be  well,  General — it  is  not  necessary — " 

"On  the  contrary,  a  strange  voice  may  have  more  effect  than  yours 
— no  ladies  about?  Of  course  not!  Lead  on,  I  follow."  Greatly  con 
fused,  Edward  led  the  way.  As  they  reached  the  wing  he  exclaimed 
the  fact  of  the  glass-room,  the  whim,  the  fancy  of  an  imaginative 
mind,  and  then  they  entered. 

Gerald  was  sleeping,  as  was  his  habit,  with  one  arm  extended,  the 
other  under  his  head;  his  long  hair  clustering  about  his  face.  The 
light  was  burning  brightly,  and  the  general  aproached.  Thrilled 
to  the  hea'rt,  Edward  steeled  himself  for  a  shock.  It  was  well  he  did. 
The  general  bent  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  sleeper's  shoulder. 
Then  he  stepped  quickly  back,  seized  Edward  with  the  strength  of  a 
giant  and  stood  there  trembling,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  pale  face  on 
the  pillow. 

"Am  I  dreaming?''  he  asked,  in  a  changed  voice.  "Is  this — the 
young  man — you  spoke  of?" 

"It  is  Gerald  Morgan." 

"Strange!  Strange!  That  likeness!  The  likeness  of  one  who 
will  never  wake  again,  my  friend,  never!  Excuse  me;  I  was  startled, 
overwhelmed!  I  would  have  sworn  I  looked  upon  that  face  as  I  did 
in  the  olden  time,  when  I  used  to  go  and  stand  in  the  moonlight  and 
dream  above  it!" 

"Ah,"  said  Edward,  his  heart  turning  to  ice  within  him,  'wluse 
was  it?"  The  answer  came  in  a  whisper. 

"It  was  my  wife's  face  first,  and  then  it  was  the  face  of  my  daught 
er!"  He  drew  himself  up  proudly,  and,  looking  long  upon  the  sleeper, 
said,  gently:  "They  shall  not  waken  you,  poor  child.  Albert  Evan 
will  take  your  place!"  With  infinite  tenderness  he  brushed  back  a 
lock  of  hair  that  fell  across  the  white  brow  and  stood  watching  him. 

Edward  turned  from  the  scene  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  too  sacred 
for  intrusion.  Over  the  sleeping  form  stood  the  old  man.  A  gener 
ation  of  loneliness,  of  silence,  of  dignified,  uncomplaining  manhood 
lay  between  them.  What  right  had  he,  an  alien,  to  be  dumb  when  a 
word  might  bring  hope  and  interest  back  to  that  saddened  life?  Was 


118  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

he  less  noble  than  the  man  himself — than  the  frail  being  locked  in  the 
deathlike  slumber? 

He  glanced  once  more  at  Gerald.  How  he  had  risen  to  the  issue, 
and  in  the  face  of  every  instinct  of  a  shrinking  nature  had  done  his 
part  until  the  delicate  machinery  gave  way!  Suppose  their  positions 
were  reversed;  that  he  lay  upon  the  bed,  and  Gerald  stood  gazing 
into  the  night  through  the  dew-gemmed  glass,  possessed  of  such  a 
secret.  Would  he  hesitate?  No!  The  answer  formed  itself  instantly 
— not  unless  he  had  base  blood  in  his  veins. 

It  was  that  taint  that  now  held  back  him,  Edward  Morgan;  he  was 
a  coward.  And  yet,  what  would  be  the  effect  if  he  should  burst  ont 
in  that  strange  place  with  his  fearful  secret?  There  would  be  an  out 
cry  ;  Rita  would  be  dragged  in,  her  story  poured  forth,  and  on  him  the 
old  man's  eyes  would  be  turned  in  horror  and  pity.  Then  the  pub 
lished  card  would  stand  a  sentence  of  social  degradation,  and  he  In 
a  foreign  land  would  nurse  the  memory  of  a  woman  and  his  disgrace. 
And  Royson!  He  ground  his  teeth. 

"I  will  settle  thatf  first,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "and  then  if 
it  is  true  I  will  prove,  God  helping  me,  that  His  spirit  can  animate 
even  the  child  of  a  slave!"  He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast  and 
wept. 

Presently  there  came  to  him  a  consciousness  that  the  black  shadow 
pressing  against  the  glass  almost  at  his  feet  was  more  than  a  shad 
ow.  It  took  the  form  of  a  human  being  and  moved;  then  the  glass 
gave  way  and  through  the  shivered  fragments  as  it  fell,  he  saw  the 
face  of  Rita  sink  from  view.  With  a  loud  cry  he  dashed  at  the  door 
and  sprang  into  the  darkness !  Her  tall  form  lay  doubled  in  the  grass. 
He  drew  her  into  the  path  of  light  that  streamed  out  and  bent  above 
her.  The  woman  struggled  to  speak^  moving  her  head  from  side  to 
side  and  lifting  it.  A  groan  burst  from  her  as  if  she  realized  that 
the  end  had  come  and  her  effort  would  be  useless.  He,  too,  realized  It. 
He  pointed  upward  quickly. 

"There  is  your  God,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "waiting!  Tell  me  in 
His  name,  am  I  your  child?  You  know!  A  mother  never  forgets! 
Answer — close  your  eyes — give  me  a  sign  if  they  have  lied  to  you!'* 

She  half-rose  in  frantic  struggle.  Her  eyes  seemed  bursting  from 
their  sockets,  and  her  lips  framed  her  last  sentence  in  almost  a  shriek. 

"They  lied!" 

Edward  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant;  his  lips  echoing  her  words. 


THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD  119 

"They  lied!"  The  gaslight  from  within  illumined  his  features,  now 
bright  with  triumph,  as  he  looked  upward. 

The  old  general  rushed  out.  He  saw  the  prostrate  form  and  fixed 
eyes  of  the  corpse. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  horrified.  Edward  turned  to  him,  dizzily; 
his  gaze  followed  the  old  man's. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "the  nurse!  She  h.is  died  of  anxiety  and  watching!" 
A  loud  summons  from  the  ponderous  knocker  echoed  in  the  house. 
Edward,  excited,  had  already  begun  to  move  away. 

"Hold!''  exclaimed  the  general,  "where  now?" 

"I  go  to  meet  the  slanderer  of  my  race !  God  have  mercy  upon  him 
now,  when  we  come  face  to  face!"  His  manner  alarmed  the  general. 
He  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Easy  now,  my  young  friend;  the  poor  woman's  fate  has  unnerved 
you;  not  a  step  further."  He  led  Edward  to  the  wing-room  and  forced 
him  down -to  the  divan.  "Stay  until  I  return!"  The  summons  with 
out  had  been  renewed;  the  general  responded  in  person  and  found 
Marsden  Thomas  at  the  door,  who  gazed  in  amazement  upon  the 
stately  form  before  him,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  said,  stiffly: 

"I  have  a  communication  to  deliver  to  Gerald  Morgan.  Will  you 
kindly  summon  him,  general?" 

"I  know  your  errand,"  said  Evan,  blandly,  "and  you  need  waste 
no  ceremony  on  me.  Gerald  is  too  ill  to  act  longer  for  Edward  Mor 
gan.  I  take  his  place  to-night.'' 

"You!     Gen.  Evan!" 

"Why  not?  Did  you  ever  hear  that  Albert  Evan  left  a  friend  up 
on  the  field?  Come  in,  come  in,  Thomas;  we  are  mixed  up  in  this 
matter,  but  it  is  not  our  quarrel.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Thomas  smiled;  the  matter  was  to  end  in  a  farce. 

Without  realizing  it,  these  two  men  were  probably  the  last  in  the 
world  to  whom  should  have  fallen  an  affair  of  honor  that  might  have 
been  settled  by  concessions.  The  bluff  old  general  defeated  Thomas' 
efforts  to  stand  on  formal  ground,  got  him  into  a  seat,  and  went 
directly  at  the  matter. 

"It  must  strike  you,  Thomas,  as  absurd  that  in  these  days  men  can 
not  settle  their  quarrels  peacefully.  There  is  obliged  to  be  a  right 
and  a  wrong  side  always,  and  sometimes  the  right  side  has  some  fault 
in  it  and  the  wrong  side  some  justice.  No  man  can  hesitate,  when 
this  adjustment  has  been  made,  to  align  himself  with  one  and  re 
pudiate  the  other.  Now,  we  both  represent  friends,  and  neither  of 


120  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

us  can  suffer  them  to  come  out  of  this  matter  smirched.  I  would  not 
be  willing  for  Royson  to  do  so,  and  certainly  not  for  Morgan.  If  we 
can  bring  both  parties  out  safely,  is  it  not  our  duty  to  do  so?  You 
will  agree  with  me!"  Thomas  said  without  hesitation: 

"I  waive  a  great  deal,  General,  on  your  account,  when  I  discuss  this 
matter  at  all;  but  I  certainly  cannot  enter  into  the  merits  of  the 
quarrel  unless  you  withdraw  your  demand  upon  us.  You  have  demand 
ed  a  retraction  of  a  charge  made  by  us  or  satisfaction.  You  cannot 
expect  me  to  discuss  the  advisability  of  a  retraction  when  I  have  here 
a  note — " 

"Which  you  have  not  delivered,  and  which  I,  an  old  man  sick  of 
war  and  quarrels,  beg  that  you  will  not  deliver  until  we  have  talked 
over  this  matter  fully.  Why  cannot  Royson  retract,  when  he  has  my 
assurance  that  he  is  in  error?" 

"For  the  reason,  probably,  General,  that  he  does  not  believe  your 
statements — although  his  friends  do!''  Evan  arose  and  paced  the 
room.  Coming  back  he  stood  over  the  young  man. 

"Did  he  say  so?     By  the  eternal — " 

"General,  suppose  we  settle  one  affair  at  a  time;  I  as  Royson's  friend, 
herewith  hand  you,  his  reply  to  the  demand  of  Mr.  Morgan.  Now, 
give  me  your  opinion  as  to  the  locality  where  this  correspondence 
can  be  quietly  and  successfully  concluded,  in  the  event  that  your  prin 
cipal  wishes  to  continue  it-"  Trembling  with  rage  the  old  man  opened 
tlie  message;  it  read: 

"Mr.  Edward  Morgan — Sir.  I  have  your  communication  of  this 
date  handed  to  me  at  8  o'clock  to-night  by  Mr.  Gerald  Morgan.  I 
have  no  retraction  or  apology  to  make.  "Amos  Royson." 

Gen.  Evan  looked  upon  the  missive  sadly  and  long.  He  placed  it 
upon  the  table  and  resumed  his  seat,  saying: 

"Do  you  understand,  Mr.  Thomas,  that  what  I  have  said  is  entirely 
upon  my  own  responsibility  and  as  a  man  who  thinks  his  age  and 
record  have  given  him  a  privilege  with  his  young  friends?" 

"Entirely,  General.  And  I  trust  you  understand  that  I  am  without 
the  privilege  of  age  and  record,  and  cannot  take  the  same  liberties." 
The  general  made  no  reply,  but  was  looking  intently  upon  the  face 
of  the  young  man.  Presently  he  said,  earnestly: 

"Your  father  and  I  were  friends  and  stood  together  on  many  a 
bloody  field.  I  bore  him  in  my  arms  from  Shiloh  and  gazed  upon  his 
dead  face  an  hour  later.  No  braver  man  ever  lived  than  William 
Thomas.  I  believe  you  are  the  worthy  son  61  a  noble  sire  and  incap- 


THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD  121 

able  of  any  act  that  could  reflect  disgrace  upon  his  name." 

The  general  continued:  "You  cannot  link  yourself  to  an  unjust 
cause  and  escape  censure;  such  a  course  would  put  you  at  war  with 
yourself  and  at  war  with  those  who  hope  to  see  you  add  new  honors 
to  a  name  already  dear  to  your  countrymen.  When  you  aid  and  abet 
Amos  Royson,  in  his  attempt  to  put  a  stigma  upon  Edward  Morgan, 
you  aid  and  abet  him  in  an  effort  to  do  that  for  which  there  is  no 
excuse.  Everything  stated  in  Royson's  letter,  and  especially  the  per 
sonal  part  of  it,  can  be  easily  disproved."  Thomas  reflected  a  moment. 
Finally  he  said: 

"I  thank  you,  General,  for  your  kind  words.  The  matter  is  not  one 
within  my  discretion,  but  give  me  the  proofs  you  speak  of,  and  I  will 
make  Royson  withdraw,  if  possible,  or  abandon  the  quarrel  myself  1" 

"I  have  given  my  word;  is  that  not  enough?" 

"On  that  only,  Mr.  Royson's  friends  require  him  to  give  Mr.  Mor 
gan  the  recognition  of  a  gentleman;  without  it  he  would  not.  The 
trouble  is,  you  can  be  mistaken.''  Evan  reflected  and  a  look  of  trouble 
settlpd  upon  his  face. 

"Mr.  Thomas,  I  am  going  to  make  a  revelation  involving  the  honor 
and  reputation  of  a  family  very  dear  to  me.  I  do  it  only  to  save  blood 
shed.  Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  never  in  any  way,  so  long  as 
you  may  live,  will  you  reveal  it.  I  shall  not  offer  my  unsupported 
word;  I  will  produce  a  witness." 

"You  have  my  word  of  honor  that  your  communication  will  be 
kept  sacred,"  said  Thomas,  greatly  interested.  The  general  bowed 
his  head.  Then  he  raised  his  hand  above  the  call  bell;  it  did  not  de 
scend.  The  martial  figure  for  a  moment  seemed  to  shrink  and  age. 
When  the  general  looked  at  length  toward  his  visitor,  he  said  in  a 
whisper: 

"The  witness  is  dead!"  Then  he  arose  to  his  feet.  "It  is  too  late!" 
he  added,  with  a  slight  gesture;  "we  shall  fight!" 


122  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE. 

From  that  moment  they  discussed  the  arrangements  formally.  These 
were  soon  made  and  Thomas  departed. 

Edward,  regaining  his  coolness  in  the  wing-room,  with  the  assist 
ance  of  Virdow,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the  disturbance,  carried 
the  body  of  Rita  to  the  house  in  the  yard  and  sent  for  a  suburban  phy 
sician  near  at  hand.  The  man  of  medicine  pronounced  the  woman 
dead.  Negroes  from  the  quarters  were  summoned  and  took  the  body 
in  charge.  These  arrangements  completed,  he  met  the  general  in  the 
hall. 

"A  settlement  is  impossible,''  said  the  latter,  sadly.  "Get  your 
buggy!  Efforts  may  be  made  by  arrests  to  stop  this  affair.  You 
must  go  home  with  me  to-night."  Virdow  was  put  in  charge  of  the 
premises  and  an  excuse  made. 

Alone,  Edward  returned  to  the  side  of  the  dead  woman.  Long  and 
earnestly  he  studied  her  face,  and  at  last  said:  "Farewell!"  Then 
he  went  to  Gerald's  room  and  laid  his  lips  upon  the  marble  brow  of 
the  sleeper.  Upstairs  he  put  certain  papers  and  the  little  picture 
in  his  pocket,  closed  the  mother's  room  door  and  locked  it.  He  turned 
and  looked  back  upon  the  white-columned  house  as  he  rode  away. 
Only  eight  weeks  had  passed  since  he  first  entered  its  doors. 

Before  leaving,  the  general  had  stabled  his  horse  and  telephoned 
Montjoy  at  the  hotel.  Taking  a  rear  street  he  passed  with  Edward 
through  the  city  and  before  day-light  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Cedars. 

Dueling  at  the  time  these  events  transpired  was  supposed  to  be 
dead  in  the  south,  and  practically  it  was.  The  press  and  pulpit,  the 
changed  system  of  business  and  labor,  state  laws,  but,  above  all  these, 
occupation  had  rendered  it  obsolete;  but  there  was  still  an  element 
that  resorted  to  the  code  for  the  settlement  of  personal  grievances, 
and  sometimes  the  result  was  a  bloody  meeting.  The  new  order  of 
things  was  so  young  that  it  really  took  more  courage  to  refuse  to 
fight  than  to  fight  a  duel.  The  legal  evasion  was  the  invitation  to  con 
clude  the  correspondence  outside  the  state. 

The  city  was  all  excitement.  The  morning  papers  had  columns 
and  black  head  lines  setting  forth  all  the  facts  that  could  be  obtained, 
and  more  besides.  There  was  also  a  brief  card  from  Edward  Morgan, 


THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE  123 

denouncing  the  author  of  the  letter  which  had  appeared  in  the  extra 
and  denying  all  charges  brought  against  him,  both  personal  and 
political. 

At  Mr.  Royson's  boarding  place  nothing  had  been  seen  of  him  since 
the  publication  of  the  card,  and  his  office  was  closed.  Who  it  was  that 
acted  for  Edward  Morgan  was  a  matter  of  surmise,  but  Col.  Mont- 
joy  and  Gen.  Evan  were  in  the  city  and  quartered  at  the  hotel.  The 
latter  had  gone  to  Ilexhurst  and  had  not  returned. 

Peace  warrants  for  Morgan  and  Royson  had  been  issued  and  placed 
in  the  hands  of  deputies,  and  two  of  them  had  watched  outside  a  glass 
room  at  Ilexhurst  waiting  for  a  man  who  was  asleep  inside,  and  who 
had  been  pointed  out  to  them  by  a  German  visitor  as  Mr.  Morgan,  to 
awaken.  The  sleeper,  however,  proved  to  be  Gerald  Morgan,  an 
invalid. 

At  noon  a  bulletin  was  posted  to  the  effect  that  Thomas  and  Royson 
had  been  seen  on  a  South  Carolina  train;  then  another  that  Gen. 
Evan  and  Edward  Morgan  were  recognized  in  Alabama;  then  came 
Tennessee  rumors. 

The  truth  was,  so  far  as  Edward  Morgan  was  concerned,  he  was 
awakened  before  noon,  given  a  room  in  a  farmhouse,  remote  from 
the  Evan  dwelling,  and  there  settled  down  to  write  important  letters. 
One  of  these  he  signed  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  The  last  one 
contained  the  picture,  some  papers  and  a  short  note  to  Gen.  Evan; 
also  Edward's  surmises  as  to  Gerald's  identity.  The  other  letters 
were  for  Virdow,  Gerald  and  Mary.  He  had  not  signed  the  last 
when  Evan  entered  the  room,  but  was  sitting  with  arms  folded 
above  it  and  his  head  resting  on  them. 

"Letter  writing!"  said  the  general.  "That  is  the  worst  feature 
of  these  difficulties.''  He  busied  himself  with  a  case  he  carried,  turn 
ing  his  back.  Edward  sealed  his  letter  and  completed  his  package. 

"Well,"  he  said,  rising.    "I  am  now  at  your  service,  Gen.  Evan!" 

"The  horses  are  ready.  We  shall  start  at  once  and  I  will  give 
you  instructions  on  the  way." 

The  drive  was  thirty  miles,  to  a  remote  station  upon  a  branch  road, 
where  the  horses  were  left. 

Connection  was  made  with  the  main  line,  yet  more  distant,  and  the 
next  dawn  found  them  at  a  station  on  the  Florida  border. 

They  had  walked  to  the  rendezvous  and  were  waiting;  Edward 
stood  in  deep  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy,  his  appearance 
suggesting  profound  melancholy.  The  general  watched  him  furtively 


124  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  finally  with  uneasiness.  After  all,  the  young  man  was  a  stranger 
to  him.  He  had  been  drawn  into  the  difficulty  by  his  sympathies,  and 
based  his  own  safety  upon  his  ability  to  read  men.  Experience  upon 
the  battle  field,  however,  had  taught  him  that  men  who  have  never 
been  under  fire  sometimes  fail  at  the  last  moment  from  a  physical 
weakness  unsuspected  by  even  themselves.  What  if  this  man  should 
fail?  He  went  up  to  Edward  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"My  young  friend,  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  you  will  realize  that 
in  cases  like  this  the  less  a  man  thinks  the  better  for  his  nerves. 
Circumstances  have  removed  you  from  the  realm  of  intellect  and 
heart.  You  are  now  simply  the  highest  type  of  an  animal,  bound  to 
preserve  self  by  a  formula,  and  that  is  the  blunt  fact."  Edward 
seemed  to  listen  without  hearing. 

"General,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  do  not  want  your  services  in  this 
affair  under  a  misapprehension.  I  have  obeyed  directions  up  to  this 
moment,  but  before  the  matter  goes  further  I  must  tell  you  what  is  in 
my  mind.  My  quarrel  with  Amos  Royson  is  because  of  his  injury  to 
me  and  his  injury  to  my  friends  through  me.  He  has  made  charges, 
and  the  customs  of  this  country,  its  traditions,  make  those  charges  an 
injury.  I  believe  the  man  has  a  right  to  resent  any  injury  and  punish 
the  spirit  behind  it."  Gen.  Evan  was  puzzled.  He  waited  in  silence. 

"I  did  not  make  these  fine  distinctions  at  first,  but  the  matter  has 
been  upon  my  mind  and  now  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  if  this 
poor  woman  were  my  mother  I  would  not  fight  a  duel  even  if  I  could, 
simply  because  someone  told  me  so  in  print.  If  it  were  true,  this 
story,  there  would  be  no  shame  to  me  in  it;  there  would  be  no  shame 
to  me  unless  I  deserted  her.  If  it  were  true  I  should  be  her  son  in 
deed  and  truth.  I  would  take  her  by  the  hand  and  seek  her  happi 
ness  in  some  other  land.  For,  as  God  is  my  judge,  to  me  the  world 
holds  nothing  so  sacred  as  a  mother,  and  I  would  not  exchange  the 
affections  of  such  were  she  the  lowliest  in  the  land,  for  all  the  priv 
ileges  of  any  society.  It  is  right  that  you  should  know  the  heart  of 
the  man  you  are  seconding.  If  I  fall  my  memory  shall  be  clear  of 
the  charge  of  unmanliness.'' 

Gen.  Evan's  appearance,  under  less  tragic  circumstances,  would 
have  been  comical.  For  one  instant,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  suffered  from  panic.  His  eyes,  after  a  moment  of  wide-open  amaze 
ment,  turned  helplessly  toward  the  railroad  and  he  began  to  feel  for 
his  glasses.  When  he  got  them  adjusted  he  studied  his  companion 
critically.  But  the  explosion  that  should  have  followed  when  the 


THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE  125 

situation  shaped  itself  in  the  old  slaveholder's  mind  did  not  come. 
He  saw  before  him  the  form  of  his  companion  grow  and  straighten, 
and  the  dark  eyes,  softened  by  emotion,  shining  fearlessly  into  his. 
It  was  the  finest  appeal  that  could  have  been  made  to  the  old  soldier. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  impulsively. 

"Unorthodox,  but,  by  heavens,  I  like  it!"  he  said. 

The  up-train  brought  Royson  and  Thjomas  and  a  surgeon  from  a 
Florida  town.  Evan  was  obliged  to  rely  upon  a  local  doctor. 

At  sunrise  the  two  parties  stood  in  the  shadow  of  live  oaks,  not  far 
apart.  Evan  and  Thomas  advanced  and  saluted  each  other  formally. 
Evan  waited  sadly  for  the  other  to  speak;  there  was  yet  time  for  an 
honorable  settlement.  Men  in  the  privacy  of  their  own  rooms  think 
one  way,  and  think  another  way  in  the  solemn  silence  of  a  woodland 
sunrise. 

And  preceding  it  all  in  this  instance  there  had  been  hours  for  re 
flection  and  hours  of  nervous  apprehension.  The  latter  told  plainly 
upon  Amos  Royson.  White  and  haggard,  he  moved  restlessly  about 
his  station,  watching  the  seconds  and  ever  and  anon  stealing  side 
long  glances  at  Morgan.  Why,  he  asked  himself,  did  the  man  stare 
at  him  with  that  fixed,  changeless  expression?  Was  he  seeking  to 
destroy  his  nerves,  to  overpower  him  with  superior  will?  No.  The 
gaze  was  simply  contemplative;  the  gaze  of  one  looking  upon  a  land 
scape  and  considering  its  features.  But  it  was  a  never-ending  one 
to  all  appearances  . 

Hope  died  away  from  the  general's  heart  at  the  first  words  of 
Thomas. 

"We  are  here,  Gen.  Evan.  What  is  your  pleasure  as  to  the  arrange 
ments?  I  would  suggest  that  we  proceed  at  once  to  end  this  affair. 
I  notice  that  we  are  beginning  to  attract  attention  and  people  are 
gathering." 

The  general  drew  him  aside  and  they  conversed.  The  case  of 
pistols  was  opened,  the  weapons  examined  and  carefully  loaded  and 
then  the  ground  was  stepped  off — fifteen  paces  upon  a  north  and  south 
line,  with  the  low,  spreading  mass  of  live  oaks  behind  each  station. 
There  were  no  perpendicular  lines,  no  perspective,  to  influence  the 
aim  of  either  party.  There  were  really  no  choice  of  positions,  but 
one  had  to  be  chosen.  A  coin  flashed  in  the  sunlight  as  it  rose  and 
descended. 

"We  win,"  said  Thomas,  simply,  "and  choose  the  north  stand. 
Take  your  place."  The  general  smiled  grimly. 


126  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"I  have  faced  north  before,''  he  said.  He  stood  upon  the  point 
designated,  and  pointed  to  Edward.  Then  the  latter  was  forced  to 
speak.  He  still  gazed  fixedly  upon  his  antagonist.  The  general  looked 
steadily  into  his  pale  face,  and,  pointing  to  his  own  track  as  he  pioved 
aside,  said: 

"Keep  cool,  now,  my  boy,  and  fire  instantly.  These  pistols  are 
heavier  than  revolvers;  I  chose  them  because  the  recoil  of  a  revolver 
is  destructive  of  an  amateur's  aim.  These  will  shoot  to  the  spot.  Keep 
cool,  keep  cool,  for  God's  sake,  and  remember  the  insult!" 

"Have  no  fear  for  me,"  said  Morgan.  "I  will  prove  that  no  blood 
of  a  slave  is  here!" 

He  took  the  weapon  and  stood  in  position.  He  had  borne  in  mind 
all  the  morning  the  directions  given  by  Gerald;  he  knew  every  detail 
of  that  figure  facing  him  in  the  now  bright  sunlight;  he  had  sketched 
it  in  detail  to  the  mouth  that  uttered  its  charge  against  him.  The 
hour  might  pass  with  no  disaster  to  him;  he  might  fall  a  corpse  or 
a  cripple  for  life;  but  so  long  as  life  lasted  this  picture  would  remain 
A  man  with  a  hard,  pale  face,  a  white  shirt  front,  dark  trousers,  hand 
clasping  nervously  a  weapon,  and  behind  all  the  deep  green  of  the 
oaks,  with  their  chiaroscuro.  Only  one  thing  would  be  missing;  the 
picture  in  mind,  clear  cut  and  perfect  in  every  other  detail,  lacked 
a  mouth! 

Some  one  is  calling  to  them. 

"Are  you  ready,  gentlemen?"  'Twas  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second, 
but  within  it  he  answered  "yes,'1  ready  to  put  the  pencil  to  that  last 
feature — to  complete  the  picture  for  all  time! 

"Fire!"  He  raised  his  brush  and  touched  the  spot;  there  was  a 
crash,  a  shock,  and — what  were  they  doing?  His  picture  had  fallen 
from  its  frame  and  they  were  lifting  it.  But  it  was  complete;  the 
carmine  was  spattered  all  over  the  lower  face.  He  heard  the  gen 
eral's  voice: 

"Are  you  hurt,  Edward?"  and  the  pistol  was  taken  from  his  grasp. 

"Hurt!  No,  indeed!  But  I  seemed  to  have  spoiled  my  painting, 
General.  Look!  My  brush  must  have  slipped;  the  paint  was  too  thin." 

The  general  hurried  away. 

"Keep  your  place;  don't  move  an  inch!  Can  I  be  of  assistance, 
gentlemen?"  he  continued  to  the  opposite  party;  our  surgeon  can  aid 
you,  my  principal  being  uninjured.  He  paused:  an  exclamation  of 
horror  escaped  him.  The  mouth  and  nose  of  Royson  seemed  crushed 
in,  and  he  was  frantically  spitting  broken  teeth  from  a  bloody  gap 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL          127 

where  his  mouth  had  been.  The  surgeons  worked  rapidly  to  stay  the 
flow  of  crimson.  While  thus  busy  the  general  in  wonder  picked  up 
Royson's  pistol.  Its  trigger  and  guard  were  gone.  He  looked  at  the 
young  man's  right  hand;  the  forefinger  was  missing. 

"An  ugly  wound,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "but  not  fatal,  I  think.  The 
ball  struck  the  guard,  cut  away  a  finger,  and  drove  the  weapon  against 
the  mouth  and  nose." 

The  surgeon  looked  up. 

"You  are  right,  I  think.  A  bad  disfigurement  of  those  features,  but 
not  a  dangerous  wound."  Thomas  saluted. 

"I  have  to  announce  my  principal  disabled,  General." 

"We  are  then  satisfied." 

Returning  to  Edward,  who  was  quietly  contemplating  the  scene 
with  little  apparent  interest,  he  said,  almost  gayly: 

"A  fine  shot,  Edward;  a  fine  shot!  His  pistol  saved  him!  If  he 
had  raised  it  an  instant  later  he  would  have  been  struck  fairly  in  the 
mouth  by  your  bullet!  Let  us  be  going.'' 

"It  is  perhaps  fortunate  that  my  shot  was  fired  when  it  was,"  said 
Edward.  "I  have  a  bullet  hole  through  the  left  side  of  my  shirt." 
The  general  looked  at  the  spot  and  then  at  the  calm  face  of  the 
speaker. 

He  extended  his  hand  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL. 

Col.  Montjoy  returned  home  early.  He  rode  into  the  yard  and 
entered  the  house  with  as  much  unconcern  as  he  could  affect.  Annie 
met  him  at  the  door  with  an  unusual  display  of  interest.  Had  he 
rested  well?  Was  not  the  hotel  warm,  and — was  there  anything  of 
interest  stirring  in  the  city?  To  all  these  questions  he  responded 
guardedly  and  courteously.  Mary's  white  face  questioned  him.  He 
put  his  arm  about  her. 

"And  how  is  the  little  mamma  to-day — have  her  eyes  given  her 
any  more  trouble?" 


128  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"She  is  staying  in  the  darkened  room  to  avoid  the  light,"  said  the 
girl.  He  went  to  her  and  the  two* young  women  were  left  alone. 
Annie  was  smiling  and  bent  upon  aggravation. 

"I  think  I  shall  ride  in,"  she  said  at  length.  "There  is  something 
afoot  that  is  being  kept  from  me.  Amos  Royson  is  my  cousin  and  I 
have  a  right  to  know  if  he  is  in  trouble.''  Mary  did  not  reply  for  a 
moment.  At  last  she  said: 

*A  man  having  written  such  a  letter  must  expect  to  find  himself 
in  trouble — and  danger,  too."  The  other  laughed  contemptuously. 

"I  did  not  say  danger!  Amos  has  little  to  fear  from  the  smooth 
faced,  milk-and-water  man  he  has  exposed." 

"Wait  and  see,"  was  the  reply.  "Amos  Royson  is  a  coward;  he  will 
not  only  find  himself  in  danger,  but  if  necessary  to  save  himself  from 
a  cowhiding  will  involve  other  people — even  a  woman !" 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  have  not  always  thought  him  a  coward; 
you  have  accepted  his  attentions  and  would  have  married  him  if  you 
had  had  the  chance."  Mary  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  treated  him  with  politeness  because  he  was  your  cousin;  that 
is  all.  As  for  marriage  with  him,  that  is  too  absurd  to  have  even 
occurred  to  me." 

Annie  ordered  Isam  to  bring  her  pony  carriage,  and  as  she  waited 
Mary  watched  her  in  silence  and  with  a  strange  expression  upon  her 
face.  When  her  father  returned  she  said,  resolutely: 

"Annie,  I  was  awake  last  night  and  heard  a  horse  coming.  Think 
ing  it  might  be  papa,  although  the  pace  was  rather  fast  for  him,  I 
went  out  to  the  gate.  There  was  a  negro  with  a  note  for  you  from 
Mr.  Royson.  Mamma  had  just  got  to  sleep  and  I  was  afraid  of  wak 
ing  her,  so  I  sent  Mr.  Royson  word  to  see  papa  at  the  hotel.'1 

The  sister-in-law  seized  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"By  what  right,  miss,  do  you  meddle  with  my  business!  It  may 
have  been  a  question  of  a  man's  life!  You  have  ruined  everything!" 
She  was  trepibling  with  rage.  Mary  faced  her  resolutely. 

"And  it  may  have  been  a  question  of  a  man's  honor.  In  either 
case,  my  father  is  the  one  to  consult!" 

"Sit  down,  both  of  you !  Annie — Mary,  I  desire  this  matter  to  end 
at  once!"  Col.  Montjoy  spoke  calmly  but  firmly.  He  retained  his 
clasp  upon  his  daughter's  hand  and  gradually  as  he  talked  drew  her 
to  his  knees. 

"There  is  a  serious  difficulty  pending  between  Mr.  Morgan  and 
Amos  Royson,  as  you  both  probably  know,"  he  said,  quietly.  "The 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL          129 

matter  is  in  good  hands,  however,  and  I  think  will  be  satisfactorily 
arranged.  I  do  not  know  which  were  better,  to  have  delivered  Amos' 
note  or  not.  It  was  a  question  Mary  had  to  decide  upon  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  She  took  a  safe  course,  at  least.  But  it  is  unseemly, 
my  children,  to  quarrel  over  it!  Drop  the  matter  now  and  let  affairs 
shape  themselves.  We  cannot  take  one  side  or  the  other.''  Annie 
made  no  reply,  but  her  lips  wore  their  ironical  smile  as  she  moved 
away- 

Mary  hid  her  face  upon  her  father's  breast  and  wept  softly.  She 
knew  that  he  did  not  blame  her,  and  she  knew  by  intuition  that  she  had 
done  right,  but  she  was  not  satisfied.  No  shadow  should  come  be 
tween  her  father  and  herself. 

"I  was  certain,"  she  said,  "that  there  was  something  wrong  in  that 
note.  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  And  I  was  determined  that 
those  two  people  should  not  hatch  up  any  more  mischief  in  this  house. 
Mr.  Morgan's  safety  might  have  depended  upon  keeping  them  apart." 
The  colonel  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  But  he  only  said: 

"If  it  will  help  clear  up  your  skies  a  little,  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  I  would  not  have  had  that  note  delivered  last  night  for  half  this 
plantation."  She  was  satisfied  then. 

"Who  ordered  the  cart,  Isam?"     The  negro  was  at  the  gate. 

"Young  mis',  sah.     She  goin'  to  town." 

"Well,  you  can  put  it  back.  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  her  to  go 
now.  Annie,"  he  said,  turning  to  that  lady,  as  she  appeared  in  the 
door,  "I  have  sent  the  cart  back.  I  prefer  that  none  of  my  family  be 
seen  upon  the  streets  to-day."  There  was  an  unwonted  tone  in  his 
voice  which  she  did  not  dare  disregard.  With  a  furious  look,  which 
only  Mary  saw,  she  returned  to  her  rooim.  A  negro  upon  a  mule 
brought  a  note.  It  read: 

"Dear  Norton:  All  attempts  at  settlement  have  failed.  I  should 
like  to  see  you,  but  think  you  had  better  maintain  strict  neutrality, 
will  wire  you  to-morrow.  "A.  E." 

"There  is  no  answer,"  he  said  to  the  boy.  And  then,  greatly  de 
pressed,  he  went  to  his  room.  Mary,  who  read  every  thought  cor 
rectly,  knew  that  the  matter  was  unsettled  and  that  her  father  was 
hopeless.  She  went  about  her  duties  steadily,  but  with  her  heart 
breaking.  The  chickens,  pigeons,  the  little  kids,  the  calves — none  of 
them  felt  the  tragedy  in  their  lives.  Their  mistress  was  grave  and 
unappreciative;  nothing  more.  But  her  eyes  were  not  closed.  She 
saw  little  Jerry  armed  with  a  note  go  out  on  the  mare  across  the  lower- 


130  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

creek  bridge,  and  the  expectant  face  of  Annie  for  two  hours  or  more 
in  every  part  of  the  house  that  commanded  a  view  of  that  unused 
approach. 

Then  Jerry  came  back  and  went  to  the  sister-in-law's  door.  He 
had  not  reached  his  quarters  before  Mary  called  him  to  help  her 
catch  a  fractious  hen.  Then  she  got  him  into  the  dining-hoom  and 
cut  an  enormous  slice  of  iced  cake. 

"Jerry,"  she  sai'd,  "how  would  you  like  that?"  Jerry's  white  eyes 
and  teeth  shone  resplendent.  He  shifted  himself  to  his  left  foot  and 
laughed.  "Tell  me  where  you  have  been  and  it  is  yours."  Jerry 
looked  abashed  and  studied  a  silver  quarter  he  held  in  his  hand,  then 
he  glanced  around  cautiously. 

"Honest,  missy?" 

"Honest !    Quick,  or  I  put  the  cake  back."    She  made  a  feint. 

"Been  to  town." 

"Of  course.      Who  was  the  note  for?" 

"Mr.  Royson.'' 

"Did  he  answer  it?" 

"No'm.  Couldn't  find  him.  Er  nigger  tole  me  he  gone  ter  fight 
wid  Mr.  Morgan,  and  everybody  waitin'  ter  hear  de  news." 

"You  can — go — Jerry.  There,"  she  handed  him  the  cake,  and, 
walking  unsteadily,  went  to  her  room.  She  did  not  come  out  until 
supper  time  and  then  her  face  was  proof  that  the  "headache"  was 
not  feigned. 

And  so  into  the  night.  She  heard  the  doors  open  and  shut,  the 
sound  of  her  father's  footsteps  on  the  porch  as  he  came  and  went. 
She  went  out  and  joined  him,  taking  his  arm. 

"Papa,''  she  said,  after  awhile,  "you  need  not  keep  it  from  me.  I 
know  all.  They  did  not  settle  it.  Mr.  Morgan  and  Mr.  Royson  have 
gone  to  fight."  She  could  not  proceed.  Her  father  laid  his  hand  upon 
hers. 

"It  will  all  come  out  right,  Mary;  it  will  all  come  out  right."  Pres 
ently  he  said:  "Amos  used  to  come  here.  I  hope  you  are  not  inter 
ested  in  him." 

"No,"  she  said  bitterly,  "I  could  never  think  much  of  Annie's  rela 
tives.  One  in  the  family  is  enough." 

"Hush,  my  child;  everything  must  give  way  now  on  Norton's  ac 
count.  Don't  forget  him.  But  for  Norton  I  would  have  settled  this 
matter  in  another  way." 

"Yes,  and  but  for  him  there  would  never  have  been  a  necessity. 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL          131 

Amos  depended  upon  his  relationship  to  keep  you  out  of  it."  Col. 
Montjoy  had  long  unconsciously  relied  upon  the  clear  mind  of  the 
girl,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  this  demonstration  of  its  wisdom. 
He  wondered  anew  as  he  paced  the  floor  in  silence.  She  continued: 
"But  Amos  is  only  the  tool,  papa;  all  of  us  have  an  enemy  here  in 
the  house.  Annie " 

"Hush!  Hush!"  he  whispered,  "don't  say  it.     It  seems  too  awful    j 
to  think  of!     Annie  is  foolish!     She  must  never  know,  on  Norton's    j 
account,  that  she  is  in  any  way  suspected  of  complicity  in  this  mat 
ter."    And  then  in  silence  they  waited  for  dawn. 

At  last  the  merciful  sun  rolled  away  the  shadows.  Breakfast  was  a 
sad  affair.  All  escaped  from  it  as  soon  as  possible. 

It  was  a  fateful  day — 7,  8,  9  o'clock.  The  matter  was  ended;  but 
how?  Mary's  haggard  face  questioned  her  father  at  every  turn.  He 
(put  his  arm  about  her  and  went  to  see  her  pets  and  charges,  but 
still  no  word  between  them.  She  would  not  admit  her  interest  in  Ed 
ward  Morgan,  nor  would  he  admit  to  himself  that  she  had  an  inter 
est  at  stake. 

And  then  toward  noon  there  came  a  horseman,  who  placed  a  mes 
sage  in  his  hands.  He  read  it  and  handed  it  to  Mary.  If  he  had  not 
smiled  she  could  not  have  read  it.  One  word  only  was  there: 

"Safe!" 

Her  father  was  at  the  moment  upfolding  an  'extra."  She  read  it 
with  him  in  breathless  interest.  Following  an  unusual  display  of  head 
lines  came  an  accurate  account  of  the  duel.  Only  a  small  part  of  the 
padded  narrative  is  reproduced  here: 

"Royson  was  nervous  and  excited  and  showed  the  effects  of  unrest. 
But  Morgan  stood  like  a  statue.  For  some  reason  he  never  moved  his 
eyes  from  his  adversary  a  moment  after  they  reached  the  field.  Both 
men  fired  at  the  command,  their  weapons  making  but  one  report* 
Some  think,  however,  that  Morgan  was  first  by  the  hundredth  part 
of  a  second,  and  this  is  possible,  as  the  single  report  sounded  like  a 
crash  or  a  prolonged  explosion.  Royson  fell,  and  it  was  supposed 
was  certainly  killed.  He  presented  a  frightful  appearance  instantly, 
being  covered  with  blood.  It  was  quickly  ascertained,  however,  that 
he  was  not  dangerously  hurt,  his  opponent's  shot  having  cut  off  a 
finger  and  the  pistol  guard,  had  hurled  the  heavy  weapon  into 
his  face.  He  escaped  with  a  broken  nose  and  the  loss  of  his  front 
teeth. 

"Morgan,  who  had  preserved  his  wonderful  coolness  from  the  first, 


132  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

received  a  bullet  through  a  fold  of  his  shirt  that  darkened  the  skin 
to  the  left  of  his  heart.  It  was  a  narrow  escape.  Parties  took  the 
up  train." 

The  extra  went  on  to  say  that  since  the  first  reading  of  the  original 
card  the  public  mind  had  undergone  a  revulsion  in  Morgan's  favor; 
a  feeling  greatly  stimulated  by  the  fact  that  Gen.  Evan  had  come 
to  the  rescue  of  that  gentleman;  had  vouched  for  him  in  every  respect 
and  was  acting  as  his  second.  When  the  colonel  had  finished  the 
thrilling  news  he  noticed  that  Mary's  head  was  in  his  lap,  and  felt 
tears  upon  his  hand  above  which  her  own  were  clasped.  Annie  was 
looking  on,  cold  and  white. 

"There  has  been  a  duel,  my  daughter,''  he  said  to  her  kindly,  "and, 
fortunately,  without  alarming  results.  Mr.  Royson  lost  a  finger,  I 
believe,  and  received  a  bruise  in  the  face;  that  is  all.  Nothing  serious. 
It  might  have  been  much  worse.  Here  is  the  paper,"  he  concluded, 
"probably  an  exaggerated  account."  She  took  it  in  silence  and  re 
turned  to  her  room.  She  ran  here  eye  through  every  sentence  with 
out  reading  and  at  last  threw  the  sheet  aside. 

Only  those  who  knew  the  whole  character  of  Annie  Mont  joy  would 
have  understood.  She  was  looking  for  her  name;  it  was  not  there. 
Her  smiling  face  was  proof  enough. 

Long  they  sat,  father  and  daughter,  his  hand  still  stroking  lightly 
her  bowed  head.  At  last  he  said,  very  gently,  the  hand  trembling  a 
little: 

"This  has  been  a  hard  trial  for  us  both — for  us  both!  I  am  glad 
it  is  over!  Morgan  is  too  fine  a  fellow  to  have  been  sacrificed  to  this 
man's  hatred  and  ambition."  She  looked  up,  her  face  wet  and  flushed. 

"There  was  more  than  that,  papa." 

"More?     How  could  there  be?" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said,  bravely:  "Mr.  Royson  has  more  than 
once  asked  me  to  marry  him1."  The  colonel's  face  grew  black  with 
sudden  rage. 

"The  scoundrel!" 

"And  he  has  imagined  that  because  Mr.  Morgan  came  to  help  your 
election — oh,  I  cannot."  She  turned  hastily  and  went  away  in  con 
fusion. 

And  still  the  colonel  sat  and  thought  with  clouded  face. 

"I  must  ask  Evan,"  he  said. 

"Colonel,  Mis'  Calline  says  come  deir,  please."  A  servant  stood 
by  him.  He  arose  and  went  into  his  wife's  room.  She  was  standing 


THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON  133 

by  the  open  window,  its  light  flooding  the  apartment,  her  bandages 
removed. 

"Why,  Caroline,  you  are  imprudent,  don't  you  know?  What  is  it; 
my  dear?  She  was  silent  and  rigid,  a  living  statue  bathed  in  the  glory 
of  the  autumn  sun.  She  waited  until  she  felt  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Norton,"  she  said,  simply,  but  with  infinite  pathos,  "I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  seen  your  loved  face  for  the  last  time.  I  am  blind!"  He 
took  her  in  his  arms — the  form  that  even  age  could  not  rob  of  its  girl- 
ishness — and  pressed  her  face  to  his  breast.  It  had  come  at  last.  His 
tears  fell  for  the  first  time  since  boyhood. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON. 

Virdow  felt  the  responsibility  of  his  position.  He  had  come  on  a 
scientific  errand  and  found  himself  plunged  into  a  tragedy.  And 
there  were  attendant  responsibilities,  the  most  serious  of  which  was 
the  revelation  to  Gerald  of  what  had  occurred. 

The  young  man  precipitated  the  crisis.  The  deputies  gone,  he 
wanted  his  coffee;  it  had  not  failed  him  in  a  lifetime.  Again  and 
again  he  rang  his  bell,  and  finally  from  the  door  of  his  wing-room 
called  loudly  for  Rita.  Then  the  professor  saw  that  the  time  for 
action  had  come.  The  watchers  about  the  body  were  consulting. 
None  cared  to  face  that  singular  being  of  whom  they  felt  a  super 
stitious  dread,  but  if  they  .did  not  come  to  him  he  would  finally  go  to 
them.  What  would  be  the  result  of  his  unexpected  discovery  of  the 
tragedy?  It  might  be  disastrous.  As  he  spoke,  he  removed  his  glasses 
from  time  to  time,  carefully  wiping  and  replacing  them,  his  faded 
eyes  beaming  in  sympathy  and  anxiety  upon  his  young  acquaintance. 

"Herr  Gerald,"  he  bagan,  "you  know  the  human  heart?"  Gerald 
frowned  and  surveyed  him  with  impatience. 

"Sometimes  at  last  the  little  valve,  as  you  call  it — sometimes  the 
little  valve  grows  weak,  and  when  the  blood  leaps  out  too  quickly 
and  can't  run  on  quickly  enough — you  understand — it  comes  back 
suddenly  again  and  drives  the  valve  lid  back  the  wrong  way." 

"Then  it  is  a  ruined  piece  of  machinery-" 


134  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"So,"  said  the  professor,  sadly;  "you  have  stated  it  correctly.  So, 
Rita — she  had  an  old  heart — and  it  is  ruined!" 

Gerald  gazed  upon  him  in  doubt,  but  fearful. 

"You  mean  Rita  is  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  Virdow.  "Poor  Rita!"  Gerald  studied  the  face  before 
him  curiously,  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  as  if  to  clear  away  a 
cloud,  and  then  went  out  across  the  yard.  The  watchers  fled  at  his 
approach.  In  the  little  room  he  came  upon  the  body.  The  woman, 
dressed  in  her  best  but  homely  attire,  lay  with  her  hands  crossed  upon 
her  bosom,  her  face  calm  and  peaceful.  Upon  her  lips  was  that  strange 
smile  which  sometinres  comes  back  over  a  gulf  of  time  from  forgotten 
youth.  He  touched  her  wrist  and  watched  her. 

Virdow  was  right;  she  was  dead. 

As  if  to  converse  with  a  friend,  he  took  a  seat  upon  the  couch  and 
lifting  one  cold  hand  held  it  while  he  remained.  This  was  Rita,  who 
had  always  come  to  wake  him  when  he  slept  too  late;  had  brought 
his  meals,  had  answered  whenever  he  called,  and  found  him  when  he 
wandered  too  long  under  the  stars  and  guided  him  back  to  his  room. 
Rita,  who,  when  his  moods  distracted  him,  had  only  to  fix  her  eye» 
on  his  and  speak  his  name,  and  all  was  peace  again. 

This  was  Rita.     Dead! 

How  could  it  be?  How  could  anything  be  wrong  with  Rita?  It  wai 
impossible!  He  put  his  hand  above  the  heart;  it  was  silent.  He  spoke 
her  name.  She  did  not  reply. 

Gradually,  as  he  concentrated  his  attention  upon  the  facts,  his 
mind  emerged  from  its  shadows.  Yes,  Rita,  his  friend,  was  dead. 
And  then  slowly,  his  life,  with  its  haunting  thoughts,  its  loneliness, 
came  back,  and  the  significance  of  these  facts  overwhelmed  him. 

He  knew  now  who  Rita  was;  it  was  an  old,  old  story.  He  knelt  and 
laid  his  cheek  upon  that  yellow  chilled  hand,  the  only  hand  that  had 
ever  lovingly  touched  him. 

She  had  been  a  mother  indeed;  humoring  his  every  whim.  She  had 
never  scolded ;  not  Rita ! 

The  doctors  had  said  he  could  sleep  without  his  opium;  they  shut 
him  up  and  he  suffered  torments.  Rita  came  in  the  night.  Her  little 
store  of  money  had  been  drawn  on.  They,  together,  deceived  the 
doctors.  For  years  they  deceived  them,  he  and  Rita,  until  all  her  little 
savings  were  gone.  And  then  she  had  worked  for  the  gentlemen  down 
town;  had  schemed  and  plotted  and  brought  him  comfort,  until  the 
doctors  gave  up  the  struggle. 


135 

Now  she  was  gone — forever!  Strange,  but  this  contingency  had 
never  once  occurred  to  him.  How  egotistical  he  must  have  been;  how 
much  a  child — a  spoiled  child ! 

He  looked  about  him.  Rita  had  years  ago  told  him  a  secret.  In 
the  night  she  had  bent  over  him  and  called  him  fond  names;  had  wept 
upon  his  pillow.  She  had  told  him  to  speak  the  word  just  once,  never 
again  but  that  one  time,  and  then  to  forget  it.  Wondering  he  said  it — 
"Mother."  He  could  not  forget  how  she  fell  upon  him  then  and  tear 
fully  embraced  him;  he  the  heir  and  nephew  of  John  Morgan.  But 
it  pleased  good  Rita  and  he  was  happy. 

Dead!  Rita!  Would  it  waken  her  if  he  spoke  that  name  again? 
He  bent  to  her  cheek  to  say  it,  but  first  he  looked  about  him  cautiously. 
Rita  would  not  like  for  any  one  to  share  the  secret.  He  bent  until 
his  lips  were  touching  hers  and  whispered  it  again: 

"Mother!"    She  did  not  move.    He  spoke  louder  and  louder. 

"Mother-."  How  strange  sounded  that  one  word  in  the  deserted 
room.  A  fear  seized  him;  would  she  never  speak  again?  He  dropped 
on  his  knees  in  agony;  and,  with  his  hand  upon  her  forehead,  almost 
screamed  the  word  again.  It  echoed  for  the  last  time — "Mother!" 
Just  then  the  face  of  Virdow  appeared  at  tHe  door,  to  be  withdrawn 
instantly. 

Then  Gerald  grew  cool.  "She  is  dead,"  he  said,  sadly  to  himself. 
"She  would  have  answered  that!" 

A  change  came  over  him!  He  seemed  to  emerge  from  a  dream; 
Virdow  stood  by  him  now.  Drawing  himself  up  proudly  he  gazed 
upon  the  dead  face. 

"She  was  a  good  nurse — a  better  no  child  ever  had.  Were  my  uncle 
living  he  would  build  her  a  great  monument.  I  will  speak  to  Edward 
about  it.  It  is  not  seemly  that  people  who  have  served  the  Morgans 
so  long  and  faithfully  should  sleep  in  unmarked  graves.  Farewell, 
Rita;  you  have  been  good  and  true  to  me."  He  went  to  his  room.  An 
hour  later  Virdow  found  him  there,  crying  as  a  child. 

With  a  tenderness  that  rose  superior  to  the  difficulties  of  language 
and  the  differences  of  race  and  customs,  Virdow  comforted  and  con 
soled  him.  And  then  occurred  one  of  those  changes  familiar  to  the 
students  of  nature  but  marvelous  to  the  unobservant.  To  Virdow, 
who  had  seen  the  vine  of  his  garden  torn  from  the  supporting  rod 
about  which  it  had  tied  itself  with  tendrils,  attach  itself  again  by  the 
gluey  points  of  new  ones  to  the  smooth  face  of  the  wall  itself,  coiling 
them  into  springs  to  resist  the  winds,  the  change  that  came  upon 


136  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Gerald  was  natural.  The  broken  tendrils  of  his  life  touched  with  quick 
intelligence  the  sympathetic  old  German  and  linked  the  simple  being 
of  the  child-man  to  him.  By  an  intuition,  womanly  in  its  swift  com 
prehension,  Virdow  knew  at  once  that  he  had  become  in  some  ways 
necessary  to  the  life  of  the  frail  being,  and  he  was  pleased.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  the  mission  without  effort,  disturbing  in  no  way  the 
new  process.  Watching  Gerald,  he  appeared  not  to  watch;  present 
at  all  times,  he  seemed  to  keep  himself  aloof. 

Virdow  called  up  an  undertaker  from  the  city  in  accordance  with 
the  directions  left  with  him  and  had  the  body  of  Rita  prepared  for 
the  burial,  which  was  to  take  jplace  upon  the  estate,  and  then  left  all 
to  the  care  of  the  watchers.  During  the  day  from  time  to  time  Gerald 
went  to  the  little  rotim,  and  on  such  visits  those  in  attendance  withdrew. 

There  was  little  excitement  among  the  negroes.  The  singing,  shout 
ing  and  violent  ecstasies  which  distinguished  the  burials  of  the  race 
were  wanting;  Rita  had  been  one  of  those  rare  servants  who  keep 
aloof  from  her  color.  Gradually  withdrawn  from  all  contact  with  the 
world,  her  life  had  shrunk  into  a  little  round  of  duties  and  the  care 
of  the  Morgan  home. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  young  master  should  find  himself 
alone  with  the  nurse  on  each  return  to  her  coffin.  During  one  of 
these  visits  Virdow  at  a  distance  beheld  a  curious  thing.  Gerald  had 
gazed  long  and  thoughtfully  into  the  silent  face  and  returning  to  his 
room  had  secured  paper  and  crayon.  Kneeling,  he  drew  carefully  the 
profile  of  his  dead  friend  and  went  away  to  his  studio.  Standing  in 
his  place  a  moment  later,  Virdow  was  surprised  to  note  the  change 
that  had  come  over  the  face;  the  relaxing  power  of  death  seemed  to 
have  rolled  back  the  curtain  of  age  and  restored  for  the  hour  a  glimpse 
of  youth.  A  woman  of  twenty-five  seemed  lying  there,  her  face  noble 
and  serene,  a  glorified  glimpse  of  what  had  been.  The  brow  was 
smooth  and  young,  the  facial  angle  high,  the  hair,  now  no  longer  un 
der  the  inevitable  turban,  smooth  and  black,  with  just  a  suspicion  of 
frost  above  the  temples.  The  lips  were  curved  and  smiling. 

Why  had  the  young  man  drawn  her  profile?  What  real  position  did 
this  woman  occupy  in  that  strange  family?  As  to  the  latter  he  could 
not  determine;  he  would  not  try.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
domestic  facts  of  life.  There  had  been  a  deep  significance  in  the  first 
scene  at  the  bedside.  And  yet  "Mother"  under  the  circumstances  might 
after  all  mean  nothing.  He  had  heard  that  southern  children  were 
taught  this,  or  something  like  it,  by  all  black  nurses.  But  as  to  the 


THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON  137 

profile,  there  was  a  phenomenon  possibly,  and  science  was  his  life. 
The  young  man  had  drawn  the  profile  because  it  was  the  first  time 
he  had  within  his  recollections  ever  seen  it.  In  the  analysis  of  his 
dreams  that  profile  might  be  of  momentous  importance. 

The  little  group  that  had  gathered  followed  the  coffin  to  a  clump  of 
trees  not  far  removed.  The  men  who  bore  it  lowered  it  at  once  to 
the  open  grave.  An  old  negro  preacher  lifted  his  voice  in  a  homely 
prayer,  the  women  sang  a  weird  hymn,  and  then  they  filled  up  the 
cavity.  The  face  and  form  of  Rita  were  removed  from  human  vision, 
but  only  the  face  and  form.  For  one  of  that  concourse,  the  young 
white  man  who  had  come  bareheaded  to  stand  calm  and  silent  at  the 
foot  of  the  grave,  she  lived  clear  and  distinct  upon  the  hidden  film  of 
memory. 

Virdow  was  not  deceived  by  that  calmness;  he  knew  and  feared  the 
reaction  which  was  inevitable.  From  time  to  time  during  the  even 
ing  he  had  gone  silently  to  the  wing-room  and  to  the  outer  yard  to 
gaze  in  upon  his  charge.  Always  he  found  him  calm  and  rational. 
He  could  not  understand  it. 

Then,  disturbed  by  the  suspense  of  Edward's  absence,  and  the  un 
certainty  of  his  fate,  he  would  forget  himself  and  surroundings  in  con 
templation  of  the  possible  disasters  of  an  American  duel — exagger 
ated  accounts  of  which  dwelt  in  his  memory.  He  resolved  to  remain 
up  until  the  crisis  came. 

It  was  midnight  when,  for  the  twentieth  time,  probably,  he  went  to 
look  in  upon  Gerald.  The  wing-room,  the  glass-room,  the  little  house 
deprived  by  death  of  its  occupant,  the  outer  premises — he  searched 
them  all  in  vain.  Greatly  troubled,  he  stood  revolving  the  new  per 
plexity  in  his  mind  when  his  eye  caught  in  the  faint  glow  of  the  east, 
where  the  moon  was  beginning  to  show  its  approach,  the  outline  of  the 
cemetery  clump  of  trees.  It  flashed  upon  him  then  that,  drawn  by  the 
power  of  association,  the  young  man  might  have  wandered  off  to  pay 
a  visit  to  the  grave  of  his  friend.  He  turned  his  own  feet  in  the  same 
direction,  and  approached  the  spot.  The  grave  had  been  dug  under  the 
widespread  limbs  of  cedar,  and  there  he  found  the  object  of  his  quest. 

Slowly  the  moon  rose  above  the  level  field  beyond,  outlining  a  form. 
In  his  dressing  gown  stood  Gerald,  with  folded  arms,  his  long  hair  fall 
ing  upon  his  shoulders,  lost  in  deep  thought. 

Thrilled  by  the  scene,  Virdow  was  about  to  speak,  when,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  there  was  flashed  upon  him  a  vision  that  sent  his 
blood  back  to  his  heart  and  left  him  speechless  with  emotion.  For  in 


138  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

that  moment  the  half-moon  was  at  the  level  of  the  head,  and  outlined 
against  its  silver  surface  he  saw  the  profile  of  the  face  he  had  studied 
in  the  coffin.  Appalled  by  the  discovery,  he  turned  silently  and  sought 
his  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  Virdow  awoke.  The  excitement,  the 
unwonted  hours  which  circumstances  forced  him  to  keep,  brought  at 
last  unbroken  rest  and  restored  his  physical  structure  to  its  normal 
condition. 

He  dressed  himself  and  descended  to  find  a  brief  telegram  announc 
ing  the  safety  of  Edward.  It  was  a  joyful  addition  to  the  conditions 
that  had  restored  him.  The  telegram  had  not  been  opened.  He  went 
quickly  to  Gerald's  room  and  found  that  young  man  at  work  upon  a 
painting  of  Rita  as  he  had  seen  her  last — the  profile  sketch.  His 
emotional  nature  had  already  thrown  off  its  gloom,  and  with  absorbed 
interest  he  was  pushing  his  work.  Already  the  face  had  been  sketched 
in  and  the  priming  completed.  Under  his  rapid  and  skillful  hands 
the  tints  and  contours  were  growing,  and  Virdow,  accustomed  as  he 
was  to  the  art  in  all  its  completeness  and  technical  perfection,  mar 
veled  to  see  the  changed  face  of  the  woman  glide  back  into  view,  the 
counterpart  he  knew  of  the  vivid  likeness  clear  cut  in  the  sensitive 
brain  that  held  it.  He  let  him  work  undisturbed.  A  word  might  affect 
its  correctness.  Only  when  the  artist  ceased  and  laid  aside  his  brush 
for  a  brief  rest  did  he  speak. 

Gerald  turned  to  him  as  to  a  co-laborer,  and  took  the  yellow  slip 
of  paper,  so  potent  with  intelligent  lettering.  He  read  it  in  silence; 
then  putting  it  aside  went  on  with  his  painting.  Virdow  rubbed  his 
brow  and  studied  him  furtively.  Such  lack  of  interest  was  inconceiv 
able  under  the  conditions.  He  went  to  work  seriously  to  account  for 
it  and  this  he  did  to  his  own  satisfaction.  In  one  of  his  published  lec 
tures  on  memory,  years  after,  occured  this  sentence,  based  upon  that 
silent  reverie: 


THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH  139 

"Impressions  and  forgetfulness  are  measurable  by  each  other;  in 
deed,  the  power  of  the  mind  to  remember  vividly  seems  to  be  measured 
by  its  power  to  forget." 

But  afterward  Gerald  picked  up  the  telegram,  read  it  intently  and 
seemed  to  reflect  over  the  information  it  contained.  Later  in  the  day 
the  postman  brought  the  mail  and  with  it  one  of  the  "extras."  Virdow 
read  it  aloud  in  the  wing-room.  Gerald  came  and  stood  before  him, 
his  eyes  revealing  excitement.  When  Virdow  reached  the  part  where 
in  Edward  was  described  as  never  removing  his  eyes  from  his  antag 
onist,  his  hearer  exclaimed: 

"Good!    He  will  kill  him!" 

"No,"  said  Virdow,  smiling;  "fortunately  he  did  not.    Listen." 

"Fortunately!"  cried  Gerald;  "fortunately!  Why?  What  right  has 
such  a  man  to  live?  He  must  have  killed  him!"  Virdow  read  on.  A 
cry  broke  from  Gerald's  lips  as  the  explanation  appeared. 

"I  was  right!  The  hand  becomes  a  part  of  the  eye  when  the  mind 
wills  it;  or,  rather,  eye  and  hand  become  mind.  The  will  is  every 
thing.  But  why  he  should  have  struck  the  guard "  He  went  to 

the  wall  and  toolc  down  two  pistols.  Handing  one  to  Virdow  and  step 
ping  back  he  said:  "You  will  please  sight  at  my  face  a  moment;  I 
cannot  understand  how  the  accident  could  have  happened."  Virdow 
held  the  weapon  gingerly. 

"But,  Herr  Gerald,  it  may  be  loaded." 

"They  are  empty,"  said  Gerald,  breeching  his  own  and  exposing 
the  cylinder  chambers,  with  the  light  shining  through.  "Now  aim!" 
Virdow  obeyed ;  the  two  men  stood  at  ten  paces,  aiming  at  each  other's 
faces.  "Your  hand,"  said  the  young  man,  "covers  your  mouth.  Ed 
ward  aimed  for  the  mouth." 

There  was  a  quick,  sharp  explosion;  Virdow  staggered  back,  drop 
ping  his  smoking  pistol.  Gerald  turned  his  head  in  mild  surprise  and 
looked  upon  a  hole  in  the  plastering  behind. 

"I  have  no  recollection  of  loading  that  pistol,"  he  said.  And  then: 
"If  your  mind  had  been  concentrated  upon  your  aim  I  would  have 
lost  a  finger  and  had  my  weapon  driven  into  my  face."  Virdow  was 
shocked  at  the  narrow  escape  and  pale  as  death. 

"It  is  nothing,"  tsaid  Gerald,  replacing  the  weapon;  "you  would  not 
hit  me  in  a  dozen  trials,  shooting  as  you  do." 

At  10  o'clock  that  night  Edward,  pale  and  weary,  entered.  He  re 
turned  with  emotion  the  professor's  enthusiastic  embrace,  and  thanked 
him  for  his  care  and  atttention  of  Gerald  and  the  household  and  for 


140  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

his  services  to  the  dead.  Gerald  studied  him  keenly  as  he  spoke,  and 
once  went  to  one  side  and  looked  upon  him  with  new  and  curious  inter 
est.  The  professor  saw  that  he  was  examining  the  profile  of  the  speak 
er  by  the  aid  of  the  powerful  lamp  on  the  table  beyond.  The  discovery 
set  his  mind  to  working  in  the  same  direction,  and  soon  he  saw  the 
profiles  of  both.  Edward's  did  not  closely  resemble  the  other.  That 
this  was  true,  for  some  reason,  the  expression  that  had  settled  upon 
Gerald's  face  attested.  The  portrait  had  been  covered  and  removed. 

Edward,  after  concluding  some  domestic  arrangements,  went  di 
rectly  to  his  room  and,  dressed  as  he  was,  threw  himself  upon  his  bed 
and  slept. 

And  as  he  slept  there  took  place  about  him  a  drama  that  would  have 
set  his  heart  beating  with  excitement  could  he  have  witnessed  it.  The 
house  was  silent;  the  city  clock  had  tolled  the  midnight  hour,  when 
Gerald  came  into  the  room,  bearing  a  shaded  lamp.  The  sleeper  lay 
on  his  back,  locked  in  the  slumber  of  exhaustion.  The  visitor,  mov 
ing  with  the  noiselessness  of  a  shadow,  glided  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  bed,  and,  placing  the  lamp  on  a  chair,  slowly  turned  up  the  flame 
and  tilted  the  shade.  In  an  instant  the  strong  profile  of  the  sleeper 
flashed  upon  the  wall.  With  suppressed  excitement  Gerald  unwrapped 
a  sheet  of  cardboard,  and  standing  it  on  the  mantel  received  upon  it 
the  shadow.  As  if  by  a  supreme  effort,  he  controlled  himself  and  traced 
the  profile  on  his  paper.  Lifting  it  from  the  mantel  he  studied  it  for 
a  moment  intently  and  then  replaced  it.  The  shadow  filled  the  tracing. 
Taking  it  slowly  from  its  position  he  passed  from  the  room.  Fortun 
ately  his  distraction  was  too  great  for  him  to  notice  the  face  of  Vir- 
dow,  or  to  perceive  it  in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  little  room  as  he  passed 
out. 

The  German  waited  a  few  moments;  no  sound  came  back  from  the 
broad  carpeted  stair;  taking  the  forgotten  lamp,  he  followed  hinj  silent 
ly.  Passing  out  into  the  shrubbery,  he  made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the 
conservatory  and  looked  in.  Gerald  had  placed  the  two  profiles,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  mirror,  and  with  a  duplex  glass  was  studying  his 
own  in  connection  with  them.  He  stood  musing,  and  then,  as  if  for 
getting  his  occupation,  he  let  the  hand-glass  crash  upon  the  floor,  tossed 
his  arms  in  an  abandonment  of  emotion,  and,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  suddenly  threw  himself  across  the  bed. 

Virdow  was  distressed  and  perplexed.  He  read  the  story  in  the 
pantomime,  but  what  could  he  do?  No  human  sympathy  could  com 
fort  such  a  grief,  nor  could  he  betray  his  knowledge  of  the  secret  he 


THE   MIDNIGHT   SEARCH  141 

had  surreptitiously  obtained.  He  paced  up  and  down  outside  until 
presently  the  moving  shadow  of  the  occupant  of  the  room  fell  upon 
his  path.  He  saw  him  then  take  from  a  box  a  little  pill  and  put  it  in 
his  mouth,  and  he  knew  that  the  troubles  of  life,  its  doubts,  distress 
and  loneliness,  would  be  forgotten  for  hours. 

Forgotten?  Who  knows?  Oh,  mystery  of  creation;  that  invisible 
intelligence  that  vanishes  in  sleep  and  in  death;  gone  on  its  voyage 
of  discovery,  appalling  in  its  possibilities;  but  yet  how  useless,  since 
it  must  return  with  no  memory  of  its  experience! 

And  he,  Virdow,  what  a  dreamer!  For  in  that  German  brain  of 
subtleties  lived,  with  the  clearness  of  an  incandescent  light  in  the 
depths  of  a  coal  mine,  one  mighty  purpose;  one  so  vast,  so  potent  in 
its  possibilities,  as  to  shake  the  throne  of  reason,  a  resolution  to  fol 
low  upon  the  path  of  mind  and  wake  a  memory  never  touched  in  the 
history  of  science.  It  was  not  an  ambition;  it  was  a  leap  toward  the 
gates  of  heaven !  For  what  cared  he  that  his  name  might  shine  for 
ever  in  the  annals  of  history  if  he  could  claim  of  his  own  mind  the  re 
cord  of  its  wanderings?  The  future  was  not  his  thought.  What  he 
sought  was  the  memory  of  the  past! 

He  went  in  now,  secure  of  the  possibility  of  disturbing  the  sleeper, 
and  stood  looking  down  into  the  room's  appointments;  there  were  the 
two  profiles  on  either  side  of  the  mirror;  upon  the  floor  the  shivered 
fragments  of  the  hand-glass. 

Virdow  returned  to  his  room,  but  before  leaving  he  took  from  the 
little  box  one  of  the  pellets  and  swallowed  it.  If  he  was  to  know  that 
mind,  he  must  acquaint  himself  with  its  conditions.  He  had  never 
before  swallowed  the  drug;  he  took  this  as  the  Frenchman  received 
the  attenuated  virus  of  hydrophobia  from  the  hands  of  Pasteur — in 
the  interest  of  science  and  the  human  race. 

As  he  lay  upon  his  bed  he  felt  a  languor  steal  upon  hinr,  saw  in  far 
dreams  cool  meadows  and  flowery  slopes,  felt  the  solace  of  perfect  re 
pose  envelop  him.  And  then  he  stood  beside  a  stream  of  running 
water  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  with  the  familiar  hills  of  youth 
along  the  horizon.  A  young  woman  came  and  stood  above  the  stream 
and  looked  intently  upon  its  glassy  surface.  Her  feature  were  in 
distinct.  Drawing  near  he,  too,  looked  into  the  water,  and  there  at 
his  feet  was  the  sad,  sweet  face  of — Marion  Evan.  He  turned  and  then 
looked  closer  at  the  woman;  he  saw  in  her  arms  the  figure  of  an  in 
fant,  over  whose  face  she  had  drawn  a  fold  of  her  gown.  She  shook 
her  head  as  he  extended  his  hand  to  remove  this  and  pointed  behind 


142  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

her.  There  the  grass  ran  out  and  only  white  sand  appeared,  with  no 
break  to  the  horizon. 

Toiling  on  through  this,  with  a  bowed  head,  was  a  female  figure. 
He  knew  her;  she  was  Rita,  and  the  burden  she,  too,  carried  in  her 
arms  was  the  form  of  a  child.  The  figures  disappeared  and  a  leaf 
floated  down  the  stream;  twenty-six  in  succession  followed,  and  then 
he  saw  a  man  descending  the  mountains  and  coming  forward,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  something  beyond  him.  It  was  Edward.  He  looked  in  the 
same  direction ;  there  was  a  frail  man  toiling  toward  him  through  the 
deep  sands  in  the  hot  sunlight.  It  was  Gerald.  And  then  the  figures 
faded  away.  There  memory  ceased  to  record. 

Whatever  else  was  the  experience  of  that  eager  mind  as  it  wandered 
on  through  the  mystery,  and  phantasmagoria  has  no  place  in  science. 
He  remembered  in  the  morning  up  to  one  point  only. 

It  was  his  last  experience  with  the  drug. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
GATHERING  THE  CLEWS. 

Edward  drifted  for  several  days  upon  the  tide  of  the  thoughts  that 
came  over  him.  He  felt  a  singular  disinclination  to  face  the  world 
again.  He  knew  that  as  life  goes  he  had  acquitted  himself  manfully 
and  that  nothing  remained  undone  that  had  been  his  duty  to  perform. 
He  was  sensible  of  a  feeling  of  deep  gratitude  to  the  old  general  for 
his  active  and  invaluable  backing;  without  it  he  realized  then  that  he 
would  have  been  drawn  into  a  pitfall  and  the  opportunity  for  defense 
gone.  He  did  not  realize,  however,  how  complete  the  public  reaction 
had  been  until  card  after  card  had  been  left  at  Ilexhurst  and  the  post 
man  had  deposited  congratulatory  missives  by  the  score.  One  of  these 
contained  notice  of  his  election  to  the  club. 

Satisfactory  as  was  all  this  he  put  aside  the  social  and  public  life 
into  which  he  had  been  drawn,  conscious  that,  while  the  affront  to  him 
had  been  resented  and  rendered  harmless,  he  himself  was  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  ever;  that  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  without  name  and 
family,  without  right  to  avail  himself  of  the  generous  offers  laid  at  his 
door.  Despite  his  splendid  residence,  his  future,  his  talents  and  his 


GATHERING  CLUES  143 

prestige  as  a  man  of  honor,  he  was — nobody;  an  accident  of  fate;  a 
whim  of  an  accentric  old  man. 

He  should  not  involve  any  one  else  in  the  possibility  of  ruin.  He 
should  not  let  another  share  his  danger.  There  could  be  no  happiness 
with  this  mystery  hanging  over  him. 

Soon  after  his  return,  while  his  heart  was  yet  sore  and  disturbed, 
he  had  received  a  note  from  Mary.  She  wrote: 

"We  suffer  greatly  on  your  account.  Poor  papa  was  bound  down 
by  circumstances  with  which  you  are  familiar,  though  he  would  gone 
to  you  at  any  cost  had  it  been  necessary.  In  addition  his  health  is 
very  delicate  and  he  has  been  facing  a  heavy  sorrow — now  realized  at 
last!  Poor  little  mamma's  eyesight  is  gone — forever,  probably.  We 
are  in  deep  distress,  as  you  may  imagine,  for,  unused  as  yet  to  her 
misfortune,  she  is  quite  helpless  and  needs  our  constant  care,  and  It 
is  pitiful  to.  see  her  efforts  to  bear  up  and  be  cheerful. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  have  sorrowed  over  the  insult  and  wrongs 
inflicted  upon  you  by  a  cowardly  connection  of  our  family,  nor  how 
anxious  I  was  until  the  welcome  news  of  your  safety  reached  us.  We 
owe  you  much,  and  more  now  since  you  were  made  the  innocent  victim 
of  a  plot  aimed  to  destroy  papa's  chances. 

"It  is  unbearable  to  think  of  your  having  to  stand  up  and  be  shot 
at  in  our  behalf;  but  oh,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  had  the  old  general 
with  you.  Is  he  not  noble  and  good?  He  is  quite  carried  away  with 
you  and  never  tires  of  talking  of  your  coolness  and  courage.  He  says 
everything  has  ended  beautifully  but  the  election,  and  he  could  remedy 
that  if  papa  would  consent,  but  nothing  in  the  world  could  take  papa 
away  from  us  now,  and  it  he  had  been  elected  his  resignation  would 
have  speedily  followed. 

"I  know  you  are  yet  weary  and  bitter,  and  do  not  even  care  to  see 
your  friends,  but  that  will  pass  and  none  will  give  you  a  more  earnest 
welcome  when  you  do  come  than  "Mary." 

He  read  this  many  times,  and  each  time  found  in  it  a  new  charm. 
Its  simplicity  and  earnestness  impressed  him  at  one  reading  and  its 
personal  interest  at  another;  its  quick  discerning  sympathy  in  another. 

It  grew  upon  him,  that  letter.  It  was  the  only  letter  ever  penned  by 
a  woman  to  him.  Notes  he  had  had  by  the  score;  rich  young  men  in 
the  great  capitals  of  Europe  do  not  escape  nor  seek  to  escape  these, 
but  this  was  straight  from  the  heart  of  an  earnest,  self-reliant,  sym 
pathetic  woman;  one  of  those  who  have  made  the  South  a  fame  as  far 


144  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

as  her  sons  have  traveled.  It  was  a  new  experience  and  destined  to  be 
a  lasting  one. 

Its  effect  was  in  the  end  striking  and  happy.  Gradually  he  roused 
himself  from  the  cynical  lethargy  into  which  he  was  sinking  and  be 
gan  to  look  about  him.  After  all  he  had  much  to  live  for,  and  with 
peace  came  new  manhood.  He  would  fight  for  the  woman  who  had 
faith  in  him — such  a  fight  as  man  never  dared  before.  He  looked  up 
to  find  Virdow  smiling  on  him-  through  his  tears. 

He  stood  up.  "I  am  going  to  make  a  statement  now  that  will  sur 
prise  and  shock  you,  but  the  reason  will  be  sufficient.  First  I  ask  that 
you  promise  me,  as  though  we  stood  before  our  Creator,  a  witness, 
that  never  in  this  life  nor  the  next,  if  consciousness  of  this  goes  with 
you,  will  you  betray  by  word  or  deed  anything  of  what  you  hear  from 
my  lips  to-night.  I  do  not  feel  any  uneasiness,  but  promise." 

"I  promise,"  said  Virdow,  simply,  "but  if  it  distresses  you,  if  you 
feel  bound  to  me — " 

"On  the  contrary,  the  reason  is  selfish  entirely.  I  tell  you  because 
the  possession  of  this  matter  is  destroying  my  ability  to  judge  fairly; 
because  I  want  help  and  believe  you  are  the  only  being  in  the  world 
who  can  give  it."  He  spoke  earnestly  and  pathetically.  "Without  it, 
I  shall  become — a  wreck."  Then  Virdow  seized  the  speaker's  hand. 

"Go  on,  Edward.  All  the  help  that  Virdow  can  give  is  yours  in 
advance." 

Edward  related  to  him  the  causes  that  led  up  to  the  duel — the  poli 
tical  campaign,  the  publication  of  Royson's  card,  and  the  history  of 
the  challenge. 

"You  call  me  Edward,"  he  said;  "the  world  knows  me  and  I  know 
myself  as  Edward  Morgan.  I  have  no  evidence  whatever  to  believe 
myself  entitled  to  bear  the  name.  All  the  evidence  I  have  points  to 
the  fact  that  it  was  bestowed  upon  me  as  was  my  fortune  itself — in 
pity.  The  mystery  that  overspreads  me  envelops  Gerald  also.  But 
fate  has  left  him  superior  to  misfortune." 

"It  has  already  done  for  him  what  you  fear  for  yourself — it  has 
wrecked  his  life,  if  not  his  mind!"  The  professor  spoke  the  words 
sadly  and  gently,  looking  into  the  night  through  the  open  window. 

Edward  turned  toward  him  in  wonder. 

"I  am  sure.  Listen  and  I  will  tell  you  why.  To  me  it  seems  fatal 
to  him,  but  for  you  there  is  consolation."  Graphically  he  described 
then  the  events  that  had  transpired  during  the  few  days  of  his  stay 
at  Ilexhurst;  his  quick  perception  that  the  mind  of  Gerald  was  work- 


GATHERING  CLUES  145 

ing  feverishly,  furiously,  and  upon  denned  lines  to  some  end;  that 
something  haunted  and  depressed  him.  His  secret  was  revealed  in 
his  conduct  upon  the  death  of  Rita. 

"It  is  plain,"  said  Virdow  finally,  "that  this  thought — this  uncer 
tainty — which  has  haunted  you  for  weeks,  has  been  wearing  upon  him 
since  childhood.  Of  the  events  that  preceded  it  I  have  little  or  no  in 
formation." 

Edward,  thrilled  to  the  heart  by  this  recital  and  the  fact  to  which 
it  seemed  to  point,  walked  the  floor  greatly  agitated.  Presently  he  said : 

"Of  these  you  shall  judge  also."  He  took  from  the  desk  in  the  ad 
joining  room  the  fragmentary  story  and  read  it.  "This,"  he  said,  as 
he  saw  the  face  of  the  old  man  beam  with  intelligence,  "  is  confirmed 
as  an  incident  in  the  life  of  Gerald  or  myself;  in  fact,  the  beginning 
of  life."  He  gave  the  history  of  the  fragmentary  story  and  of  Rita's 
confession. 

"By  this  evidence,"  he  went  on,  "I  was  led  to  believe  that  the  woman 
erred  in  the  recognition  of  her  own  child;  that  I  am  in  fact  that 
child  and  that  Gerald  is  the  son  of  Marion.  This  in  her  last  breath  she 
seemed  to  deny,  for  when  I  begged  her  to  testify  upon  it,  as  before  her 
God,  and  asked  the  question  direct,  she  cried  out:  'They  lied!'  In 
this  it  seems  to  me  that  her  heart  went  back  to  its  secret  belief  and 
that  in  the  supreme  moment  she  affirmed  forever  his  nativity.  Were 
this  all  I  confess  I  would  be  satisfied,  but  there  is  a  fatal  fact  to  come !" 
He  took  from  his  pocket  the  package  prepared  for  Gen.  Evan,  and  tore 
from  it  the  picture  of  Marion. 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  "as  between  the  two  of  us,  how  can 
this  woman  be  other  than  the  mother  of  Gerald  Morgan?  And,  if  I 
could  be  mistaken  as  to  the  resemblance,  how  could  her  father  fall 
into  my  error?  For  I  swear  to  you  that  on  the  night  he  bent  over  the 
sleeping  man  he  saw  upon  the  pillow  the  face  of  his  wife  and  daughter 
blended  in  those  features!"  Virdow  was  looking  intently  upon  the 
picture. 

"Softly,  softly,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head;  "it  is  a  true  likeness,  but 
it  does  not  prove  anything-  Family  likeness  descends  only  surely  by 
profiles.  If  we  could  see  her  profile,  but  this !  There  is  no  reason  why 
the  child  of  Rita  should  not  resemble  another.  It  would  depend  upon 
the  impression,  the  interest,  the  circumstances  of  birth,  of  associa 
tions — "  He  paused.  "Describe  to  me  again  the  mind  picture  which 
Gerald  under  the  spell  of  music  sketched — give  it  exactly."  Edward 
gave  it  in  detail. 


146  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"That,  said  Virdow,  "was  the  scene  flashed  upon  the  woman  who 
gazed  from  the  arch.  It  seems  impossible  for  it  to  have  descended  to 
Gerald,  except  by  one  of  the  two  women  there — the  one  to  whom  the 
man's  back  was  turned.  Had  this  mental  impression  come  from  the 
other  source  it  seems  to  me  he  would  have  seen  the  face  of  that  man, 
and  if  the  impression  was  vivid  enough  to  descend  from  mother  to  child 
it  would!  have  had  the  church  for  a  background,  in  place  of  the  arch, 
with  storm-lashed  trees  beyond.  This  is  reasonable  only  when  we  sup 
pose  it  possible  that  brain  pictures  can  be  transmitted.  As  a  man  I 
am  convinced.  As  a  scientist  I  say  that  it  is  not  proved." 

Edward,  every  nerve  strained  to  its  utmost  tension,  every  faculty  of 
mind  engaged,  devoured  this  brief  analysis  and  conclusion.  But  more 
proof  was  given !  Over  his  face  swept  a  shadow. 

"Poor  Gerald!  Poor  Gerald!"  he  muttered.  But  he  became  con 
scious  presently  that  the  face  of  Virdow  wore  a  concerned  look;  there 
was  something  to  come.  He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  clear 
up  the  last  vestige  of  doubt  if  doubt  could  remain. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  require  to  satisfy  you  that  be 
tween  the  two  I  am  the  son  of  Marion  Evan?" 

"Two  things,"  said  Virdow,  quickly.  "First,  proof  that  Rita  was  in 
no  way  akin  to  the  Evan  family,  for  if  she  was  in  the  remotest  de 
gree,  the  similarity  of  profiles  could  be  accounted  for.  Second,  that 
your  own  and  the  profile  of  Marion  Evan  were  of  the  same  angle. 
Satisfy  me  upon  these  two  points  and  you  have  nothing  to  fear."  A 
feeling  of  weakness  overwhelmed  Edward.  The  general  had  not  seen 
in  his  face  any  likeness  to  impress  him.  And  yet,  why  his  marked  in 
terest?  The  whole  subject  lay  open  again. 

And  Marion  Evan!    Where  was  he  to  obtain  such  proof? 

Virdow  saw  the  struggle  in  his  mind. 

"Leave  nothing  unturned,"  said  Edward,  "that  one  of  us  may  live 
free  of  doubt,  and  just  now,  God  help  me,  it  seems  my  duty  to  strive 
for  him  first." 

"And  these  efforts — when — " 

"To-night!    Let  us  descend." 

"We  go  first  to  the  room  of  the  nurse,"  said  Virdow.  "We  shall 
begin  there." 

Edward  led  the  way  and  with  a  lighted  lamp  they  entered  the  room. 
The  search  there  was  brief  and  uneventful.  On  the  wall  in  a  simple 
frame  was  a  protrait  of  John  Morgan,  drawn  years  before  from  mem 
ory  by  Gerald.  It  was  the  face  of  the  man  known  only  to  the  two 


THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS        147 

searchers  as  Abingdon,  but  its  presence  there  might  be  significant. 

Her  furniture  and  possessions  were  simple.  In  her  little  box  of 
trinkets  were  found  several  envelopes  addressed  to  her  from  Paris, 
one  of  them  in  the  handwriting  of  a  man,  the  style  of  German.  All 
were  empty,  the  letters  having  in  all  probability  been  destroyed.  They, 
however,  constituted  a  clew,  and  Edward  placed  them  in  his  pocket. 
In  another  envelope  was  a  child's  golden  curl,  tied  with  a  narrow  black 
ribbon;  and  there  was  a  drawer  full  of  broken  toys.  And  that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS. 

Virdow  was  not  a  scientist  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term.  He  had 
been  a  fairly  good  musician  in  youth  and  had  advanced  somewhat  in 
art.  He  was  one  of  those  modern  scientists,  who  are  not  walled  in  by 
past  conclusions,  but  who,  like  Morse,  leap  forward  from  a  vantage 
point  and  build  back  to  connect  with  old  results.  Early  in  life  he  had 
studied  the  laws  of  vibration,  until  it  seemed  revealed  to  him  that  all 
forms,  all  fancies,  were  born  of  it.  Gradually  as  his  beautiful  demon 
strations  were  made  and  all  art  co-ordinated  upon  this  law,  he  saw 
in  dreams  a  fulfillment  of  his  hopes  that  in  his  age,  in  his  life,  might 
bloom  the  fairest  flower  of  science,  a  mind  memory  opened  to  mortal 
consciousness. 

Dreaming  further  along  the  lines  of  Wagner,  it  had  come  to  him  that 
the  key  to  this  hidden,  dumb  and  sleeping  record  of  the  mind  was  vibra 
tion;  that  the  strains  of  music  which  summon  beautiful  dreams  to  the 
minds  of  men  were  magic  wands  lifting  the  vision  of  this  past;  not  its 
immediate  past,  but  the  past  of  ages;  for  in  the  brain  of  the  subtle 
German  was  firmly  fixed  the  belief  that  the  minds  of  men  were  in  their 
last  analysis  one  and  indivisible,  and  older  than  the  molecules  of  physi 
cal  creation. 

He  held  triumphantly  that  "then  shall  you  see  clearly,"  was  but  one 
way  of  saying  "then  shall  you  remember." 

To  this  man  the  mind  picture  which  Gerald  had  drawn,  the  church, 
with  its  tragic  figures,  came  as  a  reward  of  generations  of  labor.  He 
had  followed  many  a  false  trail  and  failed  in  hospital  and  asylum.  In 


148  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Gerald  he  hoped  for  a  sound,  active  brain,  combined  with  the  faculty 
of  expression  in  many  languages  and  the  finer  power  of  art;  an  organ 
ism  sufficiently  delicate  to  carry  into  that  viewless  vinculum  between 
body  and  soul,  vibrations,  rhymes  and  co-ordinations  delicate  enough 
to  touch  a  new  consciousness  and  return  its  reply  through  organized 
form.  He  had  found  these  conditions  perfect,  and  he  felt  that  if 
failure  was  the  result,  while  still  firmly  fixed  in  his  belief,  never  again 
would  opportunity  of  equal  merit  present  itself.  If  in  Gerald  his  the 
ory  failed  of  demonstration,  the  mind's  past  would  be,  in  his  lifetime, 
locked  to  his  mortal  consciousness.  In  brief  he  had  formed  the  con 
ditions  so  long  sought  and  upon  these  his  life's  hope  was  staked. 

Much  of  this  he  stated  as  they  sat  in  the  wing-room.  Gerald  lay 
upon  the  divan  when  he  began  talking1,  lost  in  abstraction,  but  as  the 
theory  of  the  German  was  gradually  unfolded  Edward  saw  him  fix  his 
bright  eye  upon  the  speaker,  saw  him  becoming1  restless  and  excited. 
When  the  explanation  ended  he  was  walking  the  floor. 

"Experiments  with  frogs,"  he  said,  abruptly;  "accidents  to  the 
human  brain  and"  vivisection  have  proved  the  separateness  of  memory 
and  consciousness.  But  I  shall  do  better;  I  shall  give  to  the  world  a 
complete  picture  descended  from  parent  to  child — an  inherited  brain 
picture  of  which  the  mind  is  thoroughly  conscious."  His  listeners 
waited  in  breathless  suspense;  both  knew  to  what  he  referred.  "But," 
he  added,  shaking  his  head,  "that  does  not  carry  us  out  of  the  material 
world." 

His  ready  knowledge  of  this  subject  and  its  quick  grasp  of  the  prop 
osition  astonished  Virdow  beyond  expression. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  simply. 

"When  that  fusion  of  mind  and  matter  occurs,"  said  Gerald,  posi 
tively;  "when  the  consciousness  is  put  in  touch  with  the  mind's  un 
conscious  memory  there  will  be  no  pictures  seen,  no  records  read;  we 
shall  simply  broaden  out,  comprehend,  understand,  grasp,  know!  That 
is  all!  It  will  not  come  to  the  world,  but  to  individuals,  and,  lastly, 
it  has  already  come!  Every  so  called  original  thought  that  dawns 
upon  a  human,  every  intuitive  conception  of  the  truth,  marks  the  point 
where  mind  yielded  something  of  a  memory  to  human  consciousness." 

The  professor  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat;  both  he  and  Edward  were 
overwhelmed  with  the  surprise  of  the  demonstration  that  behind  the 
sad  environment  of  this  being  dwelt  a  keen,  logical  mind.  The  speaker 
paused  and  smiled;  his  attention  was  not  upon  his  company. 

"So,"  he  said,  softly,  "come  the  song  into  the  mind  of  the  poet,  so 


THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS  149 

the  harmonies  to  the  singer  and  so  the  combination  of  colors  to  the 
artist;  so  the  rounded  periods  of  oratory  and  so  the  conception  that 
makes  invention  possible.  No  facts  appear,  because  facts  are  the  re 
sults  of  laws,  the  proofs  of  truths.  The  mind-memory  carries  none 
of  these;  it  carries  laws  and  the  truth  which  interprets  it  all;  and  when 
men  can  hold  their  consciousness  to  the  touch  of  mind  without  a  fall 
ing  apart,  they  will  stand  upon  the  plane  of  their  Creator,  because 
they  will  then  be  fully  conscious  of  the  eternal  laws  and  in  harmony 
with  them." 

"And  you,"  said  Virdow,  greatly  affected,  "have  you  ever  felt  the 
union  of  consciousness  and  mind-memory?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "what  I  have  said  is  the  truth;  for  it  came 
from  an  inner  consciousness  without  previous  determination  and  in 
tention.  I  am  right,  and  you  know  I  am  right!"  Virdow  shook  his 
head, 

"I  have  hoped,"  he  said,  gently,  "that  in  this  mind-memory  dwelt 
pictures.  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see."  Gerald  turned  away  impatiently 
and  threw  himself  upon  his  couch.  Presently  in  the  silence  which  en 
sued  rose  the  solemn  measure  of  Mendelssohn's  heart-beat  march 
from  Edward's  violin.  The  strange,  sad,  depressing  harmony  filled 
the  room;  even  Virdow  felt  its  wonderful  power  and  sat  mute  and 
disturbed.  Suddenly  he  happened  to  gaze  toward  Gerald.  He  lay 
with  ashen  face  and  rigid  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ceiling,  to  all  appear 
ances  a  corpse.  Virdow  bounded  forward  and  snatched  the  bow  from 
Edward's  hand. 

"Stop!"  he  cried;  "for  his  sake  stop,  or  you  will  kill  him!" 

They  dragged  the  inanimate  form  to  the  window  and  bathed  the 
face.  A  low  moan  escaped  the  young  man,  and  then  a  gleam  of  in 
telligence  came  into  his  eyes.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  without  success; 
an  expression  of  surprise  and  distress  came  upon  his  face  as  he  rose 
to  his  feet.  For  a  moment  he  stood  gasping,  but  presently  his  breath 
came  normally. 

"Temporary  aphasia,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  Going  to  the  easel 
he  drew  rapidly  the  picture  of  a  woman  kneeling  above  the  prostrate 
form  of  another,  and  stood  contemplating  it  in  silence.  Edward  and 
Virdow  came  to  his  side,  the  latter  pale  with  excitement.  Gerald  did 
not  notice  them.  Only  the  back  of  the  kneeling  woman  was  shown, 
but  the  face  of  the  other  was  distinct,  calm  and  beautiful.  It  was 
the  girl  in  the  small  picture. 

"That  face — that  face,"  he  whispered.    "Alas!    I  see  it  only  as  my 


150  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ancestors  saw  it."    He  resumed  his  lounge  dejectedly. 

"You  have  seen  it  before,  then?"  said  Virdow,  earnestly. 

"Before!  In  my  dreams  from  childhood!  It  is  a  face  associated 
with  me  always.  In  the  night,  when  the  wind  blows,  I  hear  a  voice 
calling  Gerald,  and  this  vision  comes.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret — " 
His  voice  had  become  lower  and  now  was  inaudible.  Placing  his  hand 
upon  the  white  wrist,  Virdow  said : 

"He  sleeps;  it  is  well.  Come  away,  my  young  friend;  I  have  learned 
much,  but  the  experience  might  have  been  dearly  bought.  Sometime 
I  will  explain."  Noiselessly  they  withdrew  to  Edward's  room.  Ed 
ward  was  depressed. 

"You  have  gained,  but  not  I,"  he  said.  "The  back  of  the  kneeling 
woman  was  toward  him." 

"Wait,"  said  Virdow;  "all  things  cannot  be  learned  in  a  night.  We 
do  not  know  who  witnessed  that  scene." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
THE  THREE  PICTURES. 

Virdow  had  arisen  and  been  to  town  when  Edward  made  his  ap 
pearance  late  in  the  morning.  After  tossing  on  his  pillow  all  night, 
at  daylight  he  had  fallen  into  a  long,  dreamless  sleep. 

Gerald  was  looking  on,  and  the  professor  was  arranging  an  experi 
mental  apparatus  of  some  kind.  He  had  suspended  a  metal  drum 
from  the  arch  of  the  glass-room  by  steel  wires,  and  over  the  upper 
end  of  the  drum  had  drawn  tightly  a  sheet  of  rubber  obtained  from 
a  toy  balloon  manufacturer.  In  the  base  of  this  drum  he  inserted  a 
hollow  stem  of  tin,  one  end  of  which  was  flared  like  a  trumpet.  The 
whole  machine  when  completed  presented  the  appearance  of  a  gigan 
tic  pipe;  the  mouthpiece  enlarged.  When  Edward  came  in  the  Ger 
man  was  spreading  upon  the  rubber  surface  of  the  drum  an  almost 
impalpable  powder,  taken  from  one  of  the  iron  nodules  which  lay 
about  on  the  surrounding  hills  and  slightly  moistened. 

"I  have  been  explaining  to  Gerald,"  said  Virdow,  cheerily,  "some  of 
my  bases  for  hopes  that  vibration  is  the  medium  through  which  to 
effect  that  ether  wherein  floats  what  men  call  the  mind,  and  am  get- 


THE  THREE  PICTURES  151 

ting  ready  to  show  the  co-ordinations  of  force  and  increasing  steadily 
and  evenly.  Try  what  you  Americans  call  'A'  in  the  middle  register 
and  remember  that  you  have  before  you  a  detective  that  will  catch 
your  slightest  error."  He  was  closing  doors  and  openings  as  he  spoke. 

Edward  obeyed.  Placing  his  mouth  near  the  trumpet  opening  he 
began.  The  simple  note,  prolonged,  rang  out  in  the  silent  room,  in 
creasing  in  strength  to  a  certain  point  and  ending  abruptly.  Then 
was  seen  a  marvelous  thing;  animated,  the  composition  upon  the  disk 
rushed  to  the  exact  center  and  then  tremulously  began  to  take  definite 
shape.  A  little  medallion  appeared,  surrounded  by  minute  dots,  and 
from  these  little  tongues  ran  outward.  The  note  died  away,  and  only 
the  breathing  of  the  eager  watchers  was  heard.  Before  them  in  bas- 
relief  was  a  red  daisy,  as  perfect,  aye,  more  nearly  perfect,  than  art 
could  supply.  Gerald  after  a  moment  turned  his  head  and  seemed  lost 
in  thought. 

"From "that  we  might  infer,"  said  Virdow,  "that  the  daisy  is  the 
'A'  note  of  the  world;  that  of  it  is  born  all  the  daisy  class  of  flowers, 
from  the  sunflower  down — all  vibrations  of  a  standard." 

Again  and  again  the  experiment  was  repeated,  with  the  same  result. 

"Now  try  'C,"  said  the  German,  and  Edward  obeyed.  Again  the 
mass  rushed  together,  but  this  time  it  spread  into  the  form  of  a  pansy. 
And  then  with  other  notes  came  fern  shapes,  trees  and  figures  that  re 
sembled  the  scale  armor  of  fish.  And  finally,  from  a  softly  sounded 
and  prolonged  note,  a  perfect  serpent  in  coils  appeared,  with  every 
ring  distinctly  marked.  This  form  was  varied  by  repetition  to  shells 
and  cornucopias. 

So  through  the  musical  scale  went  the  experiments,  each  yielding 
a  new  and  distinct  form  where  the  notes  differed.  Virdow  enjoyed  the 
wonder  of  Edward  and  the  calm  concentration  of  Gerald.  He  continued: 

"Thus  runs  the  scale  in  colors;  each  of  the  seven — red,  orange,  yel 
low,  green,  blue,  indigo  and  violet — is  a  note,  and  as  there  are  notes  in 
music  that  harmonize,  so  in  colors  there  are  the  same  notes,  the  hues 
of  which  blend  harmoniously.  What  have  they  to  do  with  the  mind 
memory?  This:  As  a  certain  number  of  vibrations  called  to  life  in 
music  the  shell,  in  light  the  color,  and  in  music  the  note,  so  once  found 
will  certain  notes,  or  more  likely  their  co-ordinations,  awaken  the  mem 
ories  of  the  mind,  since  infallibly  by  vibrations  were  they  first  born. 

"This  is  the  border  land  of  speculation,  you  think,  and  you  are  partly 
correct.  What  vibration  could  have  fixed  the  form  of  the  daisy  and  the 
shape  we  have  found  in  nature  is  uncertain,  but  remember  that  the 


152  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

earth  swings  in  a  hollow  drum  of  air  as  resonant  and  infinitely  more 
sensitive  than  rubber;  and  the  brain — there  is  a  philosophic  necces- 
sity  for  the  shape  of  a  man's  head." 

"If,"  said  Gerald,  "you  had  said  these  vibrations  awakened  the  mem 
ories  of  the  brain  instead  of  the  mind,  I  could  have  agreed  with  you. 
Yours  are  on  the  order  of  the  London  experiments.  I  am  familiar 
with  them,  but  only  through  reading."  Again  Virdow  wondered,  but 
he  continued: 

"The  powers  of  vibration  are  not  understood — in  fact,  only  dreamed 
of.  Only  one  man  in  the  world,  your  Keely,  has  appreciated  its  pos 
sibilities,  and  he  is  involved  in  the  herculean  effort  to  harness  it  to 
modern  machinery.  It  was  vibration  simply  that  affected  Gerald  so 
deeply  last  night;  a  rhythm  co-ordinating  with  his  heart.  I  have  seen 
vast  audiences — and  you  have,  too,  Edward — painfully  depressed  by 
that  dangerous  experiment  of  Mendelssohn ;  for  the  heart,  like  a  clock, 
will  seek  to  adjust  itself  to  rhythms.  Your  tempo  was  less  than  sev 
enty-two  to  the  minute;  Gerald's  delicate  heart  caught  time  and  the 
brain  lacked  blood.  A  quick  march  would  have  sent  the  blood  faster 
and  brought  exhilaration.  Under  the  influence  of  march  time  men 
cheer  and  do  deeds  of  valor  that  they  would  not  otherwise  attempt, 
though  the  measure  is  sounded  only  upon  a  drum;  but  when  to  this 
time  is  added  a  second,  a  third  and  a  fourth  rhythm,  and  the  harmon 
ies  of  tone  against  tone,  color  against  color,  in  perfect  co-ordination, 
they  are  no  longer  creatures  of  reason,  but  heroes.  The  whole  mat 
ter  is  subject  to  scientific  demonstration. 

"But  back  to  this  Tieart-beat  march.'  The  whole  nerve  system  of  man 
since  the  infancy  of  the  race  has  been  subject  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
heart,  every  atom  of  the  human  body  is  attuned  to  it;  for  while  length 
of  life,  breadth  of  shoulders,  chest  measure  and  stature  have  changed 
since  the  days  of  Adam  we  have  no  evidence  that  the  solemn  measure 
of  the  heart,  sending  its  seventy-two  waves  against  all  the  minute 
divisions  of  the  human  machine,  has  ever  varied  in  the  normal  man. 
Lessen  it,  as  on  last  night,  and  the  result  is  distressing.  And  as  you 
increase  it,  or  substitute  for  it  vibrations  more  rapid  against  those 
myriad  nerves,  you  exhilarate  or  intoxicate. 

"But  has  any  one  ever  sent  the  vibration  into  that  'viewless  vin- 
culum'  and  awakened  the  hidden  mind?  As  our  young  friend  testifies, 
yes!  There  have  been  times  when  these  lower  co-ordinations  of  song 
and  melodies  have  made  by  a  momentary  link  mind  and  matter  one, 
and  of  these  times  are  born  the  world's  greatest  treasures — jewels 


THE  THREE  PICTURES  153 

wrested  from  the  hills  of  eternity!  What  has  been  done  by  chance, 
science  should  do  by  rule." 

Gerald  had  listened,  with  an  attention  not  hoped  for,  but  the  con 
clusion  was  anticipated  in  his  quick  mind.  Busy  with  his  portfolio, 
he  did  not  attend,  but  upon  the  professor's  conclusion  he  turned  with 
a  picture  in  his  hand.  It  was  the  drawing  of  the  previous  night. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  mind  picture,  possibly,"  said  Virdow. 

"You  mean  by  that  a  picture  never  impressed  upon  the  brain,  but 
living  within  the  past  experience  of  the  mind?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  I  say  it  is  simply  a  brain  picture  transmitted  to  me  by  heredity." 

"I  deny  nothing;  all  things  are  possible.  But  by  whom?  One  of 
those  women?"  Gerald  started  violently  and  looked  suspiciously  upon 
his  questioner.  Virdow's  face  betrayed  nothing. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Gerald;  "you  have  gaps  in  your  theory,  and 
this  is  the  gap  in  mine.  Neither  of  these  women  could  have  seen  this 
picture;  there  must  have  been  a  third  person."  Virdow  smiled  and 
nodded  his  head. 

"And  if  there  was  a  third  person  he  is  my  missing  witness.  From 
him  comes  your  vision — a  true  mind  picture." 

"And  this?"  Gerald  drew  from  the  folio  a  woman's  face — the  face 
that  Edward  had  shown,  but  idealized  and  etherealized.  "From  whom 
comes  this?"  cried  the  young  man  with  growing  excitement.  "For 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  have  never,  except  in  dreams,  beheld  it,  no 
tongue  has  described  it!  It  is  mine  by  memory  alone,  not  plucked 
from  subtle  ether  by  a  wandering  mind,  but  from  the  walls  of  memory 
alone.  Tell  me."  Virdow  shook  his  head ;  he  was  silent  for  fear  of  the 
excitement.  Gerald  came  and  stood  by  him  with  the  two  pictures; 
his  voice  was  strained  and  impassioned,  and  his  tones  just  audible: 

"The  face  in  this  and  the  sleeper's  face  in  this  are  the  same;  if  you 
were  on  the  stand  to  answer  for  a  friend's  life  would  you  say  of  me, 
this  man  descends  from  the  kneeling  woman?"  Virdow  looked  upon 
him  unflinchingly. 

"I  would  answer,  as  by  my  belief  in  God's  creation,  that  by  this  tes 
timony  you  descend  from  neither,  for  the  brain  that  held  those  pic 
tures  could  belong  to  neither  woman.  One  could  not  hold  an  ether- 
alized  picture  of  her  own  face,  nor  one  a  true  likeness  of  her  own 
back."  Gerald  replaced  the  sheets. 

"You  have  told  me  what  I  knew,"  he  said;  "and  yet — from  one  of 


154  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

them  I  am  descended,  and  the  pictures  are  true!"  He  took  his  hat 
and  boat  paddle  and  left  them  abruptly.  The  portfolio  stood  open. 
Virdow  went  to  close  it,  but  there  was  a  third  drawing  dimly  visible. 
Idly  he  drew  it  forth. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  white  seagull  and  above  it  was  an  arch;  be 
yond  were  the  bending  trees  of  the  first  picture.  Both  men  studied 
It  curiously,  but  with  varying  emotions. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
"HOME  SWEET  HOME." 

Edward  approached  the  hall  that  afternoon  with  misgivings.  A 
charge  had  been  brought  against  him,  denied,  and  the  denial  defended 
with  his  life;  but  the  charge  was  not  disproved.  And  in  this  was  the 
defect  of  the  "code  of  honor."  It  died  not  because  of  its  bloodiness 
but  of  inadequacy.  A  correct  aim  could  not  be  a  satisfactory  sub 
stitute  for  good  character  nor  good  morals. 

Was  it  his  duty  to  furnish  proof  to  his  title  to  the  name  of  gentle 
man?  Or  could  he  afford  to  look  the  world  in  the  face  with  disdain 
and  hold  himself  above  suspicion?  The  latter  course  was  really  his 
only  choice.  He  had  no  proofs. 

This  would  do  for  the  world  at  large,  but  among  intimates  would 
it  suffice?  He  knew  that  nowhere  in  the  world  is  the  hearthstone 
more  sacred  than  in  the  south,  and  how  long  would  his  welcome  last, 
even  at  The  Hall,  with  his  past  unexplained?  He  would  see!  The  first 
hesitancy  of  host  or  hostess,  and  he  would  be  self -banished ! 

There  was  really  no  reason  why  he  should  remain  in  America;  agents 
could  transact  what  little  business  was  his  and  look  after  Gerald's 
affairs.  Nothing  had  changed  within  him;  he  was  the  same  Edward 
Morgan,  with  the  same  capacities  for  enjoyment. 

But  something  had  changed.  He  felt  it  with  the  mere  thought  of 
absence.  What  was  it?  As  in  answer  to  his  mental  question,  there 
came  behind  him  the  quick  breath  of  a  hors:?  and  turning  he  beheld 
Mary.  She  smiled  in  response  to  his  bow.  The  next  instant  he  had 
descended  from  his  buggy  and  was  waiting. 

"May  I  ride  with  you?"  Again  the  face  of  the  girl  lighted  with 
pleasure. 


"HOME   SWEET  HOME."  155 

"Of  course.  Get  down,  Jerry,  and  change  places  with  Mr.  Morgan." 
Jerry  made  haste  to  obey.  "Now,  drop  behind,"  she  said  to  him,  as 
Edward  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"You  see  I  have  accepted  your  invitation,"  he  began  "only  I  did  not 
come  as  soon  as  I  wished  to,  or  I  would  have  answered  your  kind  note 
at  once  in  person.  All  are  well,  I  trust?"  Her  face  clouded. 

"No.  Mamma  has  become  entirely  blind — probably  for  all  time.  I 
have  just  been  to  telegraph  Dr.  Campbell  to  come  to  us.  We  will 
know  to-morrow."  He  was  greatly  distressed. 

"My  visit  is  inopportune — J  will  turn  back.  No,  I  was  going  from 
The  Hall  to  the  general's;  I  can  keep  straight  on." 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not,  Mr.  Morgan.  Mamma  is  bearing  up  bravely, 
andj  you  can  help  so  much  to  divert  her  mind  if  you  tell  her  of  your 
travels."  He  assented  readily.  It  was  a  novel  sensation  to  find  himself 
useful. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  she  continued,  "perhaps  I  can  find  time  to 
go  to  the  general's — if  you  really  want  to  go — " 

"I  do,"  he  said.  "My  German  friend,  Virdow,  has  a  theory  he  wishes 
to  demonstrate  and  has  asked  me  to  find  the  dominate  tones  in  a  water 
fall;  I  remembered  the  general's  little  cascade,  and  owing  him  a  visit 
am  going  to  discharge  both  duties.  What  a  grand  old  man  the  gen 
eral  is!" 

"Oh,  indeed,  yes.  You  do  not  know  him,  Mr.  Morgan.  If  you  could 
have  seen  how  he  entered  into  your  quarrel — "  she  blushed  and  hesi 
tated.  "Oh,  what  an  outrage  was  that  affair!" 

"It  is  past,  Miss  Montjoy;  think  no  more  upon  it.  It  was  I  who  cost 
your  father  his  seat  in  Congress.  That  is  the  lamentable  feature." 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  the  young  girl,  "compared  with  the  morti 
fication  and  peril  forced  upon  you.  But  you  had  friends — more  than 
you  dreamed  of.  The  general  says  that  the  form  of  your  note  to  Mr. 
Royson  saved  you  a  grave  complication." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Barksdale  for  that?" 

"Yes.  I  love  Mr.  Barksdale;  he  is  so  manly  and  noble."  Edward 
smiled  upon  her;  he  was  not  jealous  of  that  kind  of  love. 

"He  is  certainly  a  fine  character — the  best  product  of  the  new  south, 
I  take  it.  I  have  neglected  to  thank  him  for  his  good  offices.  I  shall 
call  upon  him  when  I  return." 

"And,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "of  course  you  will  assure  the  gen 
eral  of  your  gratitude  to-morrow.  You  owe  him  more  than  you  sus 
pect.  I  would  not  have  you  fail  there." 


156  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"And  why  would  you  dislike  to  have  me  fail?"  She  blushed  furious 
ly  when  she  realized  how  she  had  become  involved,  but  she  met  his 
questioning  gaze  bravely. 

"You  forget  that  I  introduced  you  as  my  friend,  and  one  does  not 
like  for  friends  to  show  up  in  a  bad  light." 

He  fell  into  moody  silence,  from  which  with  difficulty  only  he  could 
bring  himself  to  reply  to  questions  as  she  led  the  way  from  personal 
grounds.  The  Hall  saved  him  from  absolute  disgrace. 

In  the  darkened  sitting-room  was  Mrs.  Montjoy  when  the  girl  and 
the  young  man  entered.  She  lifted  her  bandaged  eyes  to  the  door 
as  she  heard  their  voices  in  the  hall. 

"Mamma,  here  is  Mr.  Morgan,"  said  Mary.  The  family  had  instinct 
ively  agreed  upon  a  cheerful  tone;  the  great  oculist  was  coming;  it 
was  but  a  question  of  time  when  blessed  sight  would  return  again. 
The  colonel  raised  himself  from  the  lounge  where  he  had  been  dozing 
and  came  forward.  Edward  could  not  detect  in  his  grave  courtesy 
the  slightest  deviation  of  manner.  He  welcomed  him  smilingly  and 
inquired  of  Gerald.  And  then,  continuing  into  the  room,  the  young 
man  took  the  soft  hand  of  the  elder  woman.  She  placed  the  other  on 
his  and  said  with  that  singular  disregard  of  words  peculiar  to  the  blind : 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  Mr.  Morgan.  We  have  been  so  distressed 
about  you.  I  spent  a  wretched  day  and  night  thinking  of  your  worry 
and  danger." 

"They  are  all  over  now,  madam;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  my 
friends  were  holding  me  up  all  the  time.  Naturally  I  was  somewhat 
lonesome,"  he  said,  forcing  a  smile,  "until  the  general  came  to  my 
rescue."  Then  recollecting  himself,  he  added:  "But  those  hours  were 
as  nothing  to  this,  madam.  You  cannot  understand  how  distressed 
I  was  to  learn,  as  I  have  just  now,  of  your  illness."  She  patted  his 
hand  affectionately,  after  the  manner  of  old  ladies. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can.  Mary  has  told  us  of  your  offer  to  take  us  to  Paris 
on  that  account.  I  am  sure  sometimes  that  one's  misfortunes  fall 
heaviest  upon  friends." 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "If  the  colonel  will  keep 
house  and  trust  you  with  me,  it  is  not  too  late.  Really,  I  am  almost 
obliged  to  visit  Paris  soon,  and  if — "  he  turned  to  the  colonel  at  a  loss 
for  words.  That  gentleman  had  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead 
and  was  looking  away. 

"You  are  more  than  kind,  my  young  friend,"  he  said,  sadly:  "more 


"HOME  SWEET  HOME."  157 

than  kind.  We  will  see  Campbell.  If  it  is  necessary  Mrs.  Montjoy 
will  go  to  Paris." 

Mary  had  been  a  silent  witness  of  the  little  scene.  She  turned 
away  to  hide  her  emotion,  fearful  that  her  voice,  if  she  spoke,  would 
betray  her.  The  Duchess  came  in  and  climbed  to  grandma's  lap  and 
wound  her  arms  around  the  little  woman.  The  colonel  had  resumed 
his  seat  when  Mary  brought  in  from  the  hall  the  precious  violin  and 
laid  it  upon  the  piano,  waiting  there  until  the  conversation  lagged. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  then,  "Mr.  Morgan  has  his  violin;  he  was  on 
his  way  through  here  to  the  general's  when  I  intercepted  him.  I  know 
you  can  rely  upon  him  to  play  for  us." 

"As  much  and  as  often  as  desired,"  said  Edward  heartily.  "I  have 
a  friend  at  home,  an  old  professor  with  whom  I  studied  in  Germany, 
who  is  engaged  in  some  experiments  with  vibration,  and  he  has  as 
signed  me- rather  a  novel  task — that  is,  I  am  to  go  over  to  the  gen 
eral's  and  determine  the  tone  of  a  waterfall,  for  everything  has  its 
tone— your  window  glass,  your  walking  stick,  even — and  these  will 
respond  to  the  vibrations  which  make  that  tone.  Young  memories 
are  born  of  vibration,  and  old  airs  bring  back  old  thoughts."  He  arose 
and  took  the  violin  as  he  talked. 

If  the  presence  of  the  silent  sufferer  was  not  sufficient  to  touch  his 
heart,  there  were  the  brown,  smiling  eyes  of  the  girl  whose  fingers 
met  his  as  he  took  the  instrument.  He  played  as  never  before.  Some 
thing  went  from  him  into  the  ripe,  resonant  instrument,  something 
that  even  Virdow  could  not  have  explained,  and  through  the  simple 
melodies  he  chose,  affected  his  hearers  deeply.  Was  it  the  loneliness 
of  the  man  speaking  to  the  loneliness  of  the  silent  woman,  whose  ban 
daged  forehead  rested  upon  one  blue-veined  hand?  Or  was  it  a  new 
spring  opened  up  by  the  breath,  the  floating  hair,  the  smooth  contour 
of  cheeks,  the  melting  depths  of  brown  eyes,  the  divine  sympathy  of 
the  girl  who  played  his  accompaniments? 

All  the  old  music  of  the  blind  woman's  girlhood  had  been  carefully 
bound  and  preserved,  as  should  all  old  music  be  when  it  has  become 
a  part  of  our  lives;  and  as  this  man  with  his  subtle  power  awoke  up 
on  that  marvelous  instrument  the  older  melodies  he  gave  life  to  the 
dreams  of  her  girlish  heart.  Just  so  had  she  played  them — if  not  so 
true,  yet  feelingly.  By  her  side  had  stood  a  gallant  black-haired  youth, 
looking  down  into  her  face,  reading  more  in  her  upturned  eyes  than 
her  tongue  had  ever  uttered;  eyes  then  liquid  and  dark  with  the  light 
of  love  beaming  from  their  depths;  alas,  to  beam  now  no  more  for- 


158  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ever!  Love  must  find  another  speech.  She  reached  out  her  hand  and 
in  eloquent  silence  it  was  taken. 

Silence  drew  them  all  back  to  earth.  But  behind  the  players,  an 
old  man's  face  was  bent  upon  the  smooth  soft  hand  of  the  woman,  and 
eyes  that  must  some  day  see  for  both  of  them,  left  their  tender  tribute. 

Edward  Morgan  linked  himself  to  others  in  that  hour  with  strands 
stronger  than  steel.  Even  the  little  Duchess  felt  the  charm  and  power 
of  that  violin  in  the  hands  of  the  artist.  Wondering,  she  came  to  him 
and  stretched  up  her  little  hands.  He  took  her  upon  his  knee  then, 
and,  holding  the  instrument  under  her  chin  and  her  hands  in  his, 
awoke  a  little  lullaby  that  had  impressed  him.  As  he  sang  the  words, 
the  girl  smiled  into  the  faces  of  the  company. 

"Look,  gamma,"  she  said  gleefully;  "look!"  And  she,  lifting  her 
face,  said  gently: 

"Yes,  dear;  gamma  is  looking."  Mary's  face  was  quickly  averted; 
the  hands  of  the  colonel  tightened  upon  the  hand  he  held. 

The  Duchess  had  learned  to  sing  "Rockaby  Baby"  and  now-  she 
lifted  her  thin,  piping  voice,  the  player  readily  following,  and  sang 
sweetly  all  the  verses  she  could  remember.  Mary  took  her  in  her  arms 
when  tired,  and  Edward  let  the  strains  run  on  slower  and  softer.  The 
eyes  of  the  little  one  drooped  wearily,  and  then  as  the  player,  his 
gaze  fixed  upon  the  little  scene,  drifted  away  into  "Home,  Sweet  Home," 
they  closed  in  sleep.  The  blind  woman  still  sat  with  her  hand  in  her 
husband's,  his  head  bent  forward  until  his  forehead  rested  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST 

Mary  had  lighted  his  room  and  handed  him  the  lamp;  "sweet  sleep 
and  pleasant  dreams,"  she  had  said,  gravely  bowing  to  him  as  she 
withdrew — a  family  custom,  as  he  had  afterward  learned.  But  the 
sleep  was  not  sweet  nor  the  dreams  pleasant.  Excited  and  disturbed 
he  dozed  away  the  hours  and  was  glad  when  the  plantation  bell  rang 
its  early  summons.  He  dressed  and  made  his  way  to  the  veranda, 
whence  he  wandered  over  the  flower  garden,  intercepting  the  colonel, 
who  was  about  to  take  his  morning  look  about.  Courteously  leaving 


THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST  159 

his  horse  at  the  gate  that  gentleman  went  on  foot  with  him.  It  was 
Edward's  first  experience  on  a  plantation  and  he  viewed  with  lively 
interest  the  beginning  of  the  day's  labor.  Cotton  was  opening  and 
numbers  of  negroes,  old  and  young,  were  assembling  with  baskets  and 
sacks  or  moving  out  with  a  show  of  industry,  for,  as  it  was  explained 
to  him,  it  is  easy  to  get  them  early  started  in  cotton-picking  time,  as 
the  work  is  done  by  the  hundred  pounds  and  rhe  morning  dew  counts 
for  a  great  deal.  "Many  people  deduct  for  that,"  said  Montjoy,  "but 
I  prefer  not  to.  Lazy  and  trifling  as  he  is,  the  negro  is  but  poorly 
paid." 

"But,"  said  Edward,  laughing,  "you  do  not  sell  the  dew,  I  suppose?" 

"No.  Generally  it  evaporates,  but  if  it  does  not  the  warehouse  de 
ducts  for  it." 

"I  noticed  at  one  place  on  the  way  south  that  the  people  were  using 
wheel  implements,  do  you  not  find  them  profitable?  The  colonel  point 
ed  to  a  shed  under  which  were  a  number  of  cultivators,  revolving  plows, 
mowing  machines  and  a  dirt  turner.  "I  do  not,  the  negro  cannot 
keep  awake  on  the  cultivator  and  the  points  get  into  the  furrows  and 
so  throw  out  the  cotton  and  corn  that  they  were  supposed  to  cultivate. 
Somehow  they  never  could  learn  to  use  the  levers  at  the  right  place, 
with  the  revolving  plow,  and  they  wear  its  axle  off.  They  did  no  bet 
ter  with  the  mower;  they  seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  it  would  cut 
anything  from  blades  of  grass  up  to  a  pine  stump,  and  it  wouldn't." 

"The  disk  harrow,"  he  continued  laughingly,  "was  broken  in  a  curi 
ous  way.  I  sent  a  hand  out  to  harrow  in  some  peas.  He  rode  along 
all  right  to  the  field  and  then  deliberately  wedged  the  disks  to  keep 
them  from  revolving,  not  understanding  the  principle.  I  sometimes 
think  that  they  are  a  little  jealous  of  these  machines  and  do  not  want 
them  to  work  well." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  old  negroes." 

"Too  many;  too  many,"  he  said,  sadly;  "but  what  can  be  done? 
These  people  have  been  with  me  all  my  life  and  I  can't  turn  them 
adrift  in  their  old  age.  And  the  men  seem  bent  upon  keeping  mar 
ried,"  he  added,  goodnaturedly.  "When  the  old  wives  die  they  get 
new  and  young  ones,  and  then  comes  extravagant  living  again." 

"And  you  have  them  all  to  support?" 

"Of  course.  The  men  do  a  little  chopping  and  cotton-picking,  but 
not  enough  to  pay  for  the  living  of  themselves  and  families.  What  is 
it,  Nancy?" 

"Pa  says  please  send  him  some  meal  and  meat.     He  ein't  had  er 


160  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

mouthful  in  four  days."  The  speaker  was  a  little  negro  girl.  "Go, 
»ee  your  young  mistress.  That  is  a  specimen,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
half -laughing,  half-frowning.  "Four  days!  He  would  have  been  dead 
the  second!  Our  system  does  not  suit  the  new  order  of  things.  It 
seems  to  me  the  main  trouble  is  in  the  currency.  Our  values  have 
all  been  upset  by  legislation.  Silver  ought  never  have  been  demone 
tized  ;  it  was  fatal,  sir.  And  then  the  tariff." 

"Is  not  overproduction  a  factor,  Colonel?  I  read  that  your  last 
crops  of  cotton  were  enormous." 

"Possibly  so,  but  the  world  has  to  have  cotton,  and  an  organization 
would  make  it  buy  at  our  own  prices.  There  are  enormous  varia 
tions,  of  course,  we  can't  figure  in  advance,  and  whenever  a  low  price 
rules,  the  country  is  broke.  The  result  is  the  loan  associations  and 
cotton  factors  are  about  to  own  us." 

The  two  men  returned  to  find  Mary  with  the  pigeons  upon  her  shoul 
ders  and  a  flock  of  poultry  begging  at  her  feet. 

"You  are  going  with  me  to  the  general's,"  he  said,  pleadingly,  as 
he  stood  by  her.  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  suppose  not  this  time;  mamma  needs  me."  But  at  the  breakfast 
table,  when  he  renewed  the  subject,  that  lady  from  her  little  side  table 
said  promptly:  "Yes."  Mary  needed  the  exercise  and  diversion,  and 
then  there  was  a  little  mending  to  be  done  for  the  old  general.  He 
always  saved  it  for  her.  It  was  his  whim. 

So  they  started  in  Edward's  buggy,  riding  in  silence  until  he  said 
abruptly: 

"I  am  persevering,  Miss  Montjoy,  as  you  will  some  day  find  ^ut, 
and  I  am  counting  upon  your  help." 

"In  what?"     She  was  puzzled  by  his  manner. 

"In  getting  Moreau  in  Paris  to  look  into  the  little  mamma's  eyes." 
She  reflected  a  moment. 

"But  Dr.  Campbell  is  coming." 

"It  is  through  him  I  going  to  accomplish  my  purpose;  he  must 
send  her  to  Paris." 

"But,"  she  said,  sadly,  "we  can't  afford  it.  Norton  could  arrange 
it,  but  papa  would  not  be  willing  to  incur  such  a  debt  for  him." 

"His  son — her  son!"  Edward  showed  his  surprise  very  plainly. 

"You  do  not  understand.  Norton  has  a  family;  neither  papa  nor 
mamma  would  borrow  from  him,  although  he  would  be  glad  to  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  he  could.  And  there  is  Annie "  she  stopped. 

Edward  saw  the  difficulty. 


THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST  161 

"Would  your  father  accept  a  loan  from  me?"    She  flushed  painfully. 

"I  think  not,  Mr.  Morgan.  He  could  hardly  borrow  money  of  his 
guest." 

"But  I  will  not  be  his  guest,  and  it  will  be  a  simple  business  trans 
action.  Will  you  help  me?"  She  was  silent 

"It  is  very  hard,  very  hard,"  she  said,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
"Hard  to  have  mamma's  chances  hang  upon  such  a  necessity." 

"Supposing  I  go  to  your  father  and  say:  'This  thing  is  necessary 
and  must  be  done.  I  have  money  to  invest  at  5  per  cent,  and  am 
going  to  Paris.  If  you  will  secure  me  with  a  mortgage  upon  this  place 
for  the  necessary  amount  I  will  pay  all  expenses  and  take  charge  of 
your  wife  and  daughter.'  Would  it  offend  him?" 

"He  could  not  be  offended  by  such  generosity,  but  it  would  distress 
him — the  necessity." 

"That  should  not  count  in  the  matter,"  he  said,  gravely.  "He  is  al 
ready  distressed.  And  what  is  all  this  to  a  woman's  eyesight?" 

"How  am  I  to  help?"  she  asked  after  a  while. 

"The  objection  will  be  chiefly  upon  your  account,  I  am  afraid,"  he 
said,  after  reflection.  "You  will  have  to  waive  everything  and  second 
my  efforts.  That  will  settle  it."  She  did  not  promise,  but  seemed  lost 
in  thought.  When  she  spoke  again  it  was  upon  other  things. 

"Ah,  truant!"  cried  the  general,  seeing  her  ascending  the  steps  and 
coming  forward,  "here  you  are  at  last.  How  are  you,  Morgan?  Sit 
down,  both  of  you.  Mary,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  sternly,  "if  you 
neglect  me  this  way  again  I  shall  go  off  and  marry  a  grass  widow. 
Do  you  hear  me,  miss?  Look  at  this  collar."  He  pointed  dramatically  j 
to  the  offending  article;  one  of  the  Byronic  affairs,  to  which  the  old 
south  clings  affectionately,  and  which  as  affectionately  clings  to  the 
garment  it  is  supposed  to  adorn,  since  it  is  a  part  of  it.  "I  have  but-j 
toned  that  not  less  than  a  dozen  times  to-day."  She  laughed  and,  go 
ing  in,  presently  returned  with  thread  and  needle  and  sitting  upon 
his  knee  restored  the  buttonhole  to  its  proper  size.  Then  she  surveyed 
him  a  moment. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  over  to  see  us?" 

"Because " 

"You  will  have  to  give  the  grass  widow  a  better  excuse  than  that. 
Tis  a  woman's  answer.  But  here  is  Mr.  Morgan,  come  to  see  if  he 
can  catch  the  tune  your  waterfall  plays — if  you  have  no  objection." 
Edward  explained  the  situation. 

"Go  with  him,  Mary.    I  think  the  waterfall  plays  a  better  tune  to  a 


162  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

man  when  there  is  a  pretty  girl  around."  She  playfully  stopped  his 
mouth  and  then  darted  into  the  house. 

"General,"  said  Edward,  earnestly,  "I  have  not  written  to  you.  I 
preferred  to  come  in  person  to  express  anew  my  thanks  and  appre 
ciation  of  your  kindness  in  my  recent  trial.  The  time  may  come — 

"Nonsense,  my  boy;  we  take  these  things  for  granted  here  in  the 
south.  If  you  are  indebted  to  anybody  it  is  to  the  messenger  who 
brought  me  the  news  of  your  predicament,  put  me  on  horseback  and 
sent  me  hurrying  off  in  the  night  to  town  for  the  first  time  in  twenty 
years." 

"And  who  could  have  done  that?"  Edward  asked,  overwhelmed  with 
emotion.  "From  whom?" 

"From  nobody.  She  summed  up  the  situation,  got  behind  the  little 
mare  and  came  over  here  in  the  night.  Morgan,  that  is  the  rarest  girl 
in  Georgia.  Take  care,  sir;  take  care,  sir."  He  was  getting  himself  in 
dignant  over  some  contingency  when  the  object  of  his  eulogium  ap 
peared. 

"Now,  General,  you  are  telling  tales  on  me." 

"Am  I?  Ask  Morgan.  I'd  swear  on  a  stack  of  Bibles  as  high  as 
yonder  pine  I  have  not  mentioned  your  name." 

"Well,  it  is  a  wonder.    Come  on,  Mr.  Morgan." 

The  old  man  watched  them  as  they  picked  their  way  through  the 
hedge  and  concluded  his  interrupted  remark:  "If  you  break  that 
loyal  heart — if  you  bring  a  tear  to  those  brown  eyes,  you  will  meet  a 
different  man  from  Royson."  But  he  drove  the  thought  away  while 
he  looked  affectionately  after  the  pair. 

Down  came  the  little  stream,  with  an  emphasis  and  noise  dispropor- 
tioned  to  its  size,  the  cause  being,  as  Edward  guessed,  the  distance  of 
the  fall  and  the  fact  that  the  rock  on  which  it  struck  was  not  a  solid 
foundation,  but  rested  above  a  cavity.  Mary  waited  while  he  listened, 
turning  away  to  pluck  a  flower  and  to  catch  in  the  falling  mist  the  col 
ors  of  the  rainbow.  But  as  Edward  stood,  over  him  came  a  flood  of 
thoughts;  for  the  air  was  full  of  a  weird  melody,  the  overtone  of  one 
great  chord  that  thrilled  him  to  the  heart.  As  in  a  dream  he  saw  her 
standing  there,  the  blue  skies  and  towering  trees  above  her,  a  bit  of 
light  in  a  desert  of  solitude.  Near,  but  separated  from  him  by  an 
infinite  gulf.  "Forever!  Forever!"  all  else  was  blotted  out. 

She  saw  on  his  face  the  white  desperation  she  had  noticed  once  before. 

"You  have  found  it,"  she  said.    "What  is  the  tone?" 


THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE  163 

"Despair,"  he  answered,  sadly.    "It  can  mean  nothing  else." 
"And  yet,"  she  said,  a  new  thought  animating  her  mobile  face, 
as  she  pointed  into  the  mist  above,  "over  it  hangs  the  rainbow." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE   HAND  OF   SCIENCE. 

A  feeling  of  apprehension  and  solemnity  pervaded  the  hall  when  at 
last  the  old  family  coach  deposited  its  single  occupant,  Dr.  Campbell,  at 
the  gate.  The  colonel  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  to  welcome  him. 
Edward  arid  Mary  were  waiting  in  the  sitting-room. 

The  famous  practitioner,  a  tall,  shapely  figure,  entered,  and  as  he 
removed  his  glasses  he  brought  sunshine  into  the  room,  with  his  cheery 
voice  and  confident  manner.  To  Mrs.  Mont  joy  he  said: 

"I  came  as  soon  as  the  telegram  was  received.  Anxiety  and  loss  of 
rest  in  cases  like  yours  are  exceedingly  undesirable.  It  is  better  to  be 
informed — even  of  the  worst.  Before  we  discuss  this  matter,  come 
to  the  window  and  let  me  examine  the  eye,  please."  He  was  assisting 
her  as  he  spoke.  He  carefully  studied  the  condition  of  the  now  in 
flamed  and  sightless  organ,  and  then  replaced  the  bandage. 

"It  is  glaucoma,"  he  said,  briefly.  "You  will  remember  that  I  feared 
it  when  we  fitted  the  glasses  some  years  ago.  The  slowness  of  its 
advance  is  due  to  the  care  you  have  taken.  If  you  are  willing  I  would 
prefer  to  operate  at  once."  All  were  waiting  in  painful  silence.  The 
brave  woman  replied:  "Whenever  you  are  ready  I  am,"  and  resumed 
her  knitting.  He  had  been  deliberate  in  every  word  and  action,  but 
the  occasion  was  already  robbed  of  its  terrors,  so  potent  are  confidence, 
decision  and  action.  Edward  was  introduced  and  would  have  taken 
his  leave,  but  the  oculist  detained  him. 

"I  shall  probably  need  you,"  he  said,  "and  will  be  obliged  if  you 
remain.  The  operation  is  very  simple." 

The  room  was  soon  prepared;  a  window  was  thrown  open,  a  lounge 
drawn  under  it  and  bandages  prepared.  Mary,  pale  with  emotion, 
when  the  slender  form  of  her  mother  was  stretched  upon  the  lounge 
hurriedly  withdrew.  The  colonel  seated  himself  and  turned  away 
his  face.  There  was  no  chloroform,  no  lecture.  With  the  simplicity  of 


164  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

of  a  child  at  play,  the  great  man  went  to  work.  Turning  up  the  eyelid, 
he  dropped  upon  the  cornea  a  little  cocaine,  and  selecting  a  minute 
scalpel  from  his  case,  with  two  swift,  even  motions  cut  downward  from 
the  center  of  the  eye  and  then  from  the  same  starting  point  at  right 
angles.  The  incisions  extended  no  deeper  than  the  transparent  epider 
mis  of  the  organ.  Skillfully  turning  up  the  angle  of  this,  he  exposed 
a  thin,  white  growth — a  minute  cloud  it  seemed  to  Edward. 

"Another  drop  of  cocaine,  please,"  the  pleasant  voice  of  the  oculist 
recalled  him,  and  upon  the  exposed  point  he  let  fall  from  the  dropper 
the  liquid.  Lifting  the  little  cloud  with  keen  pinchers,  the  operator 
removed  it,  restored  the  thin  epidermis  to  its  place,  touched  it  again 
with  cocaine,  and  replaced  the  bandage.  The  strain  of  long  hours 
was  ended;  he  had  not  been  in  the  house  thirty  minutes. 

"I  felt  but  the  scratch  of  a  needle,"  said  the  patient;  "it  is  indeed 
ended?" 

"All  over,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  He  then  wrote  out  a  prescription 
and  directions  for  dressing,  to  be  given  to  the  family  physician.  Mary 
was  already  by  her  mother's  side,  holding  and  patting  her  hand. 

The  famous  man  was  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  now  entered 
into  a  cheerful  discussion  of  former  times  and  mutual  acquaintances. 
The  little  boy  had  entered,  and  somehow  had  got  into  his  lap,  where 
all  children  usually  got  who  came  under  his  spell.  While  talking  on 
other  subjects  he  turned  down  the  little  fellow's  lids. 

"I  see  granulation  here,  colonel.  Attend  to  it  at  once.  I  will  leave 
a  prescription."  And  then  with  a  few  words  of  encouragement,  he 
went  off  to  the  porch  to  smoke. 

After  dinner  the  conversation  came  back  to  the  patient. 

"She  will  regain  her  vision  this  time,"  said  Dr.  Campbell,  "but  the 
desease  can  only  be  arrested;  it  will  return.  The  next  time  it  will 
do  no  good  to  operate.  It  is  better  to  know  these  things,  and  prepare 
for  them."  The  silence  was  broken  by  Edward. 

"Are  you  so  sure  of  this,  doctor,  that  you  would  advise  against 
further  consultation?  In  Paris,  for  instance,  is  Moreau.  In  your  opin 
ion,  is  there  the  slightest  grounds  for  his  disagreeing  with  you?" 

"In  my  opinion,  no.  But  my  opinion  never  extends  to  the  point  of 
neglecting  any  means  open  to  us.  Were  I  afflicted  with  this  disease  I 
would  consult  everybody  within  reach  who  had  had  experience."  Ed 
ward  glanced  in  triumph  at  Mary.  Dr.  Campbell  continued: 

"I  would  be  very  glad  if  it  were  possible  for  Mrs.  Montjoy  to  see 
Moreau  about  the  left  eye.  You  will  remember  that  I  expressed  a 


THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE  165 

doubt  as  to  the  hopelessness  of  restoring  that  one  when  it  was  lost.  It 
.  was  not  affected  with  glaucoma;  there  is  a  bare  possibility  that  some 
thing  might  be  done  for  it  with  success.  If  the  disease  returns  upon 
the  right  eye,  the  question  of  operating  upon  the  other  might  then 
come  up  again."  Edward  waited  a  moment  and  then  continued  his 
questions : 

"Do  you  not  think  a  sea  voyage  would  be  beneficial,  doctor?" 

"Undoubtedly,  if  she  is  protected  from  the  glare  and  dust  while 
ashore.  We  can  only  look  to  building  up  her  general  health  now."  Ed 
ward  turned  away,  with  throbbing  pulses. 

"But,"  continued  the  doctor,  "of  course  nothing  of  this  sort  should 
be  attempted  until  the  eye  is  perfectly  well  again;  say  in  ten  days  or 
two  weeks."  Mary  sat  with  howed  head.  She  did  not  see  why  Dr. 
Campbell  arose  presently  and  walked  to  where  Edward  was  standing. 
She  looked  upon  them  there.  Edward  was  talking  with  eager  face  and 
the  other  studying  him  through  his  glasses.  But  somehow  she  con 
nected  his  parting  words  with  that  short  interview. 

"And  about  the  sea  voyage  and  Moreau,  colonel;  I  do  not  know 
that  I  ought  to  advise  you,  but  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  find  it  convenient 
to  arrange  that,  and  will  look  to  you  to  have  Moreau  send  me  a  writ 
ten  report.  Good-bye."  But  Edward  stopped  him. 

"I  am  going  back  directly,  doctor,  and  can  take  you  and  the  carriage 
need  not  return  again.  I  will  keep  you  waiting  a  few  moments  only." 
He  drew  Col.  Montjoy  aside  and  they  walked  to  the  rear  veranda. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  want  to  make  you  an  offer,  and  I 
do  it  with  hesitancy  only  because  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  understand 
me  thoroughly  upon  such  short  acquaintance.  I  believe  firmly  in  this 
trip  and  want  you  to  let  me  help  you  bring  it  about.  Without  having 
interested  myself  in  your  affairs,  I  am  assured  that  you  stand  upon 
the  footing  of  the  majority  of  southerners  whose  fortunes  were  staked 
upon  the  Confederacy,  and  that  just  now  it  would  inconvenience  you 
greatly  to  meet  the  expense  of  this  experience.  I  want  you  to  let  me 
take  the  place  of  John  Morgan  and  do  just  as  he  would  have  done 
in  this  situation — advance  you  the  necessary  money  upon  your  own 
terms."  As  he  entered  upon  the  subject  the  old  gentleman  looked 
away  from  him,  and  as  he  proceeded  Edward  could  see  that  he  was 
deeply  affected.  He  extended  his  hand  impulsively  to  the  young  man 
at  last  and  shook  it  warmly.  Tears  had  gathered  in  his  eyes.  Edward 
continued : 

"I  appreciate  what  you  would  say,  Colonel;  you  think  it  too  much 


166  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

for  a  comparative  stranger  to  offer,  or  for  you  to  accept,  but  the  matter 
is  not  one  of  your  choosing.  The  fortunes  of  war  have  brought  about 
the  difficulty,  and  that  is  all.  You  have  risked  your  all  on  that  issue 
and  have  lost.  You  cannot  risk  the  welfare  of  your  wife  upon  an  issue 
of  pride.  You  must  accept.  Go  to  Gen.  Evan,  he  will  tell  you  so." 

"I  cannot  consider  the  offer,  my  young  friend,  in  any  other  than  a 
business  way.  Your  generosity  has  already  put  us  under  obligations 
we  can  never  pay  and  has  only  brought  you  mortification." 

"Not  so,"  was  the  reply.  "In  your  house  I  have  known  the  first 
home  feeling  I  ever  experienced.  Colonel,  don't  oppose  me  in  this. 
If  you  wish  to  call  it  business,  give  it  that  term." 

"Yours  will  be  the  fourth  mortgage  on  this  place;  I  hesitate  to 
offer  it.  The  hall  is  already  pledged  for  $15,000." 

"It  is  amply  sufficient." 

"I  will  consider  the  matter,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  said  after  a  long  si 
lence.  "1  will  consider  it  and  consult  Evan.  I  do  not  see  my  way  clear 
to  accept  your  offer,  but  whether  or  not,  my  young  friend" — putting 
his  arm  over  the  other's  shoulder,  his  voice  trembling — "whether  I 
do  or  not  you  have  in  making  it  done  me  an  honor  and  a  favor  that 
I  will  remember  for  life.  It  is  worth  something  to  meet  a  man  now 
I  and  then  who  is  worthy  to  have  lived  in  nobler  times.  God  bless  you — 
'  and  now  you  must  excuse  me."  He  turned  away  abruptly.  Thrilled 
by  his  tone  and  words,  Edward  went  to  the  front.  As  he  shook  hands 
with  Mary  he  said: 

"I  cannot  tell  yet.  But  he  cannot  refuse.    There  is  no  escape  for  him." 

At  the  depot  in  the  city  the  doctor  said:  "Do  not  count  too  hope 
fully  upon  Paris,  my  young  friend.  There  is  a  chance,  but  in  my  opin 
ion  the  greatest  good  that  can  be  achieved  is  for  the  patient  to  store  in 
memory  scenes  upon  which  in  other  days  she  may  dwell  with  pleasure. 
Keep  this  in  mind  and  be  governed  accordingly."  He  climbed  aboard 
the  train  and  waved  adieu. 

Edward  was  leaving  the  depot  when  he  overtook  Barksdale.  Put 
ting  his  buggy  in  the  care  of  a  boy,  he  walked  on  with  the  railroader 
at  his  request  to  the  club.  Barksdale  took  him  into  a  private  room  and 
over  a  choice  cigar  Edward  gave  him  all  the  particulars  of  the  duel 
and  then  expressed  his  grateful  acknowledgments  for  the  friendly 
services  rendered  him. 

"I  am  assured  by  Gen.  Evan,"  he  said,  "that  had  my  demand  been 
made  in  a  different  form  I  might  have  been  seriously  embarrassed." 

"Roy  son  depended  upon  the  Mont  joys  to  get  him  out  of  the  affair; 


THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE  167 

he  had  no  idea  of  fighting." 

"But  how  could  the  Mont  joys  have  helped  him?" 

"They  could  have  appealed  to  him  to  withdraw  the  charges  he  had 
made,  and  he  would  have  done  so  because  the  information  came  really 
from  a  member  of  the  Montjoy  family.  I  do  not  think  you  will  need 
to  ask  her  name.  I  mention  it  to  you  because  you  should  be  informed." 
Edward  comprehended  his  meaning  at  once.  Greatly  agitated,  he 
exclaimed :  \ 

"But  what  object  could  she  have  had  in  putting  out  such  slander? 
I  do  not  know  her  nor  she  me."  Barksdale  waved  his  hand  depre- 
catingly : 

"You  do  not  know  much  of  women." 

"No.     I  have  certainly  not  met  this  kind  before." 

Barksdale  reflected  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  slowly:  "Slander 
is  a  curious  thing,  Mr.  Morgan.  People  who  do  not  believe  it  will  re 
peat  it.  I  think  if  I  were  you  I  would  clear  up  all  these  matters  by 
submitting  to  an  interview  with  a  reporter.  In  that  you  can  place 
your  own  and  family  history  before  the  public  and  end  all  talk."  Ed 
ward  was  pale,  but  this  was  the  suggestion  that  he  had  considered 
more  than  once.  He  shook  his  head  quickly. 

"I  disagree  with  you.  I  think  it  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  gentleman 
to  answer  slander  by  the  publication  of  his  family  history.  If  the 
people  of  this  city  require  such  statements  from  those  who  come  among 
them,  then  I  shall  sell  out  my  interest  here  and  go  abroad,  where  I 
am  known.  This  I  am,  however,  loath  to  do;  I  have  a  few  warm 
friends  here."  Barksdale  extended  his  hand. 

"You  will,  I  hope,  count  me  among  them.  I  spoke  only  from  a  de 
sire  to  see  you  fairly  treated." 

"I  have  reason  to  number  you  among  them.  I  am  going  to  Paris 
shortly,  I  think,  with  Mrs.  Montjoy.  Her  eyesight  is  failing.  I  will 
be  glad  to  see  you  again  before  then." 

"With  Mrs.  Montjoy?"  exclaimed  Barksdale. 

"Yes;  the  matter  is  not  entirely  settled  yet,  but  I  do  not  doubt  that 
she  will  make  the  trip.  Miss  Montjoy  will  go  with  us." 

Barksdale  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  but  was  silent,  his  hand  toying  with 
his  glass. 

"I  will  probably  call  upon  you  before  your  departure,"  he  said,  as 
he  arose. 


168  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH. 

Twilight  was  deepening  over  the  hills  and  already  the  valleys  were 
in  shadow  when  Edward  reached  Ilexhurst.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  back  on  the  city  and  the  hills  beyond.  He  seemed  to  be  lay 
ing  aside  a  sweeter  life  for  something  less  fair,  and  the  old  weight 
descended  upon  him.  After  all  was  it  wise  to  go  forth,  when  the  re 
turn  to  the  solitude  of  a  clouded  life  was  inevitable?  There  was  no 
escape  from  fate. 

In  the  east  the  hills  were  darkening,  but  memory  flashed  on  him  a 
scene — a  fair-faced  girl,  as  he  had  seen  her,  as  he  would  always  see 
her,  floating  upon  an  amethyst  stream,  smiling  upon  him,  one  hand 
parting  the  waters  and  over  them  the  wonders  of  a  southern  sunset. 

In  the  wing-room  Virdow  and  Gerald  were  getting  ready  for  an  ex 
periment  with  flashlight  photography.  Refusing  to  be  hurried  in  his 
scientific  investigations,  Gerald  had  insisted  that  until  it  had  been 
proven  that  a  living  substance  could  hold  a  photographic  imprint  he 
should  not  advance  to  the  consideration  of  Virdow's  theory.  There 
must  be  brain  pictures  before  there  could  be  mind  pictures.  At  least, 
so  he  reasoned.  None  of  them  knew  exactly  what  his  experiment  was 
to  be,  except  that  he  was  going  to  test  the  substance  that  envelopes 
the  body  of  the  bass,  the  micopterus  salmoides  of  southern  waters. 
That  sensitive  plate,  thinner  than  art  could  make  it,  was  not  only 
spoiled  by  exposure  to  light,  but  by  light  and  air  combined  was  abso 
lutely  destroyed.  And  the  difficulty  of  controlling  the  movements  of 
this  fish  seemed  absolutely  insuperable.  They  could  only  watch  the 
experimenter. 

Into  a  thin  glass  jar  Gerald  poured  a  quantity  of  powder,  which 
he  had  carefully  compounded  during  the  day.  Virdow  saw  in  it  'he 
silvery  glimmer  of  magnesium.  What  the  combined  element  was  could 
not  be  determined.  This  compound  reached  only  a  third  of  ihe  dis 
tance  up  the  side  of  the  glass.  The  jar  was  then  stopped  with  cork 
pierced  by  a  copper  wire  that  touched  the  powder,  and  hermetically 
sealed  with  wax.  With  this  under  one  arm,  and  a  small  galvanic  bat 
tery  under  the  other,  and  restless  with  suppressed  excitement,  Ger 
ald,  pointing  to  a  small  hooded  lantern,  whose  powerful  reflector  was 


THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH  169 

lighting  one  end  of  the  room,  bade  them  follow  him. 

Virdow  and  Edward  obeyed.  With  a  rapid  stride  Gerald  set  out 
across  fields,  through  strips  of  woodlands  and  down  precipitous  slopes 
until  they  stood  all  breathless  upon  the  shore  of  the  little  lake.  There 
they  found  the  flat-bottom  bateau,  and  although  by  this  time  both 
Edward  and  Virdow  had  begun  seriously  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  blind 
ly  following  such  a  character,  they  resigned  themselves  to  fate  and 
entered. 

Gerald  propelled  the  little  craft  carefully  to  a  stump  that  stood  up 
distinct  against  the  gloom  under  the  searchlight  in  the  bow,  and  reach 
ing  it  took  out  his  pocket  compass.  Turning  the  boat's  head  north 
east,  he  followed  the  course  about  forty  yards  until  at  the  left  the  re 
flector  showed  him  two  stakes  in  line.  Here  he  brought  the  little  craft 
to  a  standstill,  and  in  silence,  which  he  invoked  by  lifting  his  hand 
warningly,- turned  the  lantern  downward  over  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
and  with  a  tube,  whose  lower  end  was  stubbed  with  a  bit  of  glass  and 
inserted  in  the  water,  examined  the  bottom  of  the  <ake  twelve  feet 
below.  Long  and  patient  was  the  search,  but  at  last  the  others  saw 
him  lay  aside  his  glass  and  let  the  boat  drift  a  few  moments.  Then 
very  gently,  only  a  ripple  of  the  surface  marking  the  action,  he  lower 
ed  the  weighted  jar  until  the  slackening  wire  indicated  that  it  wa§ 
upon  the  bottom.  He  reached  out  his  hand  quickly  and  drew  the  bat 
tery  to  him,  firmly  grasping  the  cross-handle  lever.  The  next  instant 
there  was  a  rumbling,  roaring  sound,  accompanied  by  a  fierce,  white 
light,  and  the  end  of  the  boat  was  in  the  air.  In  a  brief  moment  Ed 
ward  saw  the  slender  form  of  the  enthusiast  bathed  in  the  flash,  his 
face  as  white  as  chalk,  his  eyes  afire  with  excitement — the  incarna 
tion  of  insanity,  it  seemeB  to  him.  Then  there  was  a  deluge  of  spray, 
a  violent  rocking  of  the  boat  and  the  water  in  it  went  over  their  shoe- 
tops.  Instantly  all  was  inky  blackness,  except  where  in  the  hands  of 
the  fearless  man  in  the  stern  the  lantern,  its  slide  changed,  was  now 
casting  a  stream  of  red  light  upon  the  surface  of  the  lake.  Suddenly 
Gerald  uttered  a  loud  cry. 

"Look!  Look!  There  he  is!"  And  floating  in  that  crimson  path, 
with  small  fishes  rising  around  him,  was  the  dead  body  of  a  gigantic 
bass.  Lifting  him  carefully  by  the  gills,  Gerald  laid  him  in  a  box 
drawn  from  under  the  rear  seat. 

"What  is  it?"  broke  from  Virdow.  "We  have  risked  our  lives  and 
ruined  our  clothes — for  what?" 

"For  a  photograph  upon  a  living  substance!     On  the  side  of  this 


170  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

fish,  which  was  exposed  to  the  flashlight,  you  will  find  the  outlines  of 
the  grasses  in  this  lake,  or  the  whole  film  destroyed.  If  the  outlines 
are  there  then  there  is  no  reason  why  the  human  brain,  infinitely 
more  sensitive  and  forever  excluded  from  light,  cannot  contain  the 
pictures  of  those  twin  cameras — the  human  eyes."  He  turned  the 
boat  shoreward  and  seizing  his  box  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  his 
enlarged  pupils  giving  him  the  visual  powers  of  a  night  animal.  Vir- 
dow  and  Edward,  even  aided  by  the  lantern,  found  their  way  back 
with  difficulty. 

The  two  men  entered  the  wing-room  to  find  it  vacant.  Virdow,  how 
ever,  pointed  silently  to  the  red  light  gleaming  through  the  glass  of 
the  little  door  to  the  cabinet.  The  sound  of  trickling  water  was  heard. 

At  that  instant  a  smothered  half-human  cry  came  from  within,  and 
trembling  violently,  Gerald  staggered  into  the  room.  They  took  hold 
of  him,  fearing  he  would  fall.  Straining  their  eyes,  they  both  saw  for 
an  instant  only  the  half -developed  outlines  of  a  human  profile  extended 
along  the  broad  side  of  the  fish.  As  they  watched,  the  surface  grew 
into  one  tone  and  the  carcass  fell  to  the  floor. 

Gazing  into  their  faces  as  he  struggled  for  ^freedom,  Gerald  cast 
off  their  hands.  The  lithe,  sinewy  form  seemed  to  be  inbued  at  the 
moment  with  the  strength  of  a  giant.  Before  they  could  speak  he  had 
seized  the  lantern  and  was  out  into  the  night.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  Edward,  bareheaded,  plunged  after  him.  Well  trained  to 
college  athletics  though  he  was,  yet  unfamiliar  with  the  grounds,  it 
taxed  his  best  efforts  to  keep  him  in  sight.  He  divined  that  the  wild 
race  would  end  at  the  lake,  and  the  thought  that  on  a  few  seconds  might 
hang  the  life  of  that  strange  being  was  all  that  held  him  to  the  pro 
longed  and  dangerous  strain.  He  reached  the  shore  just  in  time,  by 
plunging  waist  deep  into  the  water,  to  throw  himself  into  the  boat. 
His  own  momentum  thrust  it  far  out  upon  the  surface.  Gerald  had 
entered. 

With  unerring  skill  and  incredible  swiftness,  the  young  man  car 
ried  the  boat  over  its  former  course  and  turned  the  glare  of  the  lamp 
downward.  Suddenly  he  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and,  dropping  the  latern 
in  the  boat,  stood  up  and  leaped  into  the  water.  The  light  was  now 
out  and  all  was  as  black  as  midnight. 

Edward  slipped  off  his  shoes,  seized  the  paddle  and  waited  for  a 
sound  to  guide  him.  It  seemed  as  though  nothing  human  could  sur 
vive  that  prolonged  submergence;  minutes  appeared  to  pass;  with  a 
groan  of  despair  he  gave  up  hope. 


THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH  171 

But  at  that  moment,  with  a  gasp,  the  white  face  of  Gerald  burst 
from  the  waters  ten  feet  away,  and  the  efforts  he  made  showed  that 
he  was  swimming  with  difficulty.  With  one  mighty  stroke  Edward 
sent  the  boat  to  the  swimmer  and  caught  the  floating  hair.  Then  with 
great  difficulty  he  drew  him  over  the  side. 

"Home!"  The  word  escaped  from  Gerald  between  his  gasps,  but 
when  he  reached  the  shore,  with  a  return  of  energy  and  a  total  dis 
regard  of  his  companion,  he  plunged  into  the  darkness  toward  the 
house,  Edward  this  time  keeping  him  in  view  with  less  difficulty. 

They  reached  the  door  of  the  wing-roow  almost  simultaneously  and 
rushed  in  side  by  side,  Gerald  dripping  with  water  and  exhausted.  He 
leaned  heavily  against  the  table.  For  the  first  time  Edward  was 
conscious  that  he  carried  a  burden  in  his  arms.  In  breathless  silence, 
he  with  Virdow  approached,  and  then  upon  the  table  Gerald  placed  an 
object  and  drew  shuddering  back.  It  was  a  half  life-size  bust  of 
darkened  and  discolored  marble,  and  for  them,  though  trembling  with 
excitement,  it  seemed  to  have  no  especial  significance  until  they  were 
startled  by  a  cry  so.  loud,  so  piercing,  so  heartrending,  that  they  felt 
the  flesh  creep  upon  their  bones. 

Looking  from  the  marble  to  the  face  of  the  young  man  they  saw 
that  the  whiteness  of  death  was  upon  every  feature.  Following  the 
direction  of  his  gaze,  they  beheld  a  silhouette  upon  the  wall ;  the  clear- 
cut  profile  of  a  woman,  cast  by  the  carved  face  before  them.  To  Ed 
ward  it  was  an  outline  vaguely  familiar;  to  Virdow  a  revelation,  for 
it  was  Edward's  own  profile.  Had  the  latter  recognized  it  there  would 
have  been  a  tragedy,  for,  without  a  word  after  that  strange,  sad,  de 
spairing  cry,  Gerald  wrenched  a  dagger  from  the  decorated  panel,  and 
struck  at  his  own  heart.  It  was  Edward's  quickness  that  saved  him; 
the  blade  made  but  a  trifling  flesh  wound.  Seizing  him  as  he  did  from 
the  rear  he  was  enabled  to  disturb  his  equilibrium  in  time. 

"Morphine,"  he  said  to  Virdow.  The  latter  hurried  away  to  secure 
the  drug.  He  found  with  the  pellets  a  little  pocket  case  containing 
morphine  powders  and  a  hypodermic  injector.  Without  a  struggle, 
Gerald  lay  breathing  heavily.  In  a  few  minutes  the  drug  was  ad 
ministered,  and  then  came  peace  for  the  sufferer.  Edward  released 
his  hold  and  looked  about  him.  Virdow  had  moved  the  bust  and  was 
seated  lost  in  thought. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  asked,  approaching,  awed  and  saddened 
by  his  experience.  Virdow  held  up  the  little  bust. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  that  face  before?" 


172  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"It  is  the  face  of  the  young  woman  in  the  picture!" 

"And  now,"  said  Virdow,  again  placing  the  marble  so  as  to  cast  its 

outlines  upon  the  wall,  "you  do  not  recognize  it,  but  the  profile  is  your 

own!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
THE  TRADE  WITH  SLIPPERY  DICK. 

Amos  Royson,  in  the  solitude  of  his  room,  had  full  time  for  reflec 
tion  upon  the  events  of  the  week  and  upon  his  position.  His  face, 
always  sinister,  had  not  improved  under  its  contact  with  the  heavy 
dueling  pistol  driven  so  savagely  against  it.  The  front  teeth  would 
be  replaced  and  the  defect  concealed  under  the  heavy  mustache  he 
wore,  and  the  cut  and  swollen  lips  were  resuming  their  normal  con 
dition.  The  missing  finger,  even,  would  inconvenience  him  only  until 
he  had  trained  the  middle  one  to  discharge  its  duties — but  the  nose !  He 
trembled  with  rage  when  for  the  hundredth  time  he  studied  his  face 
in  the  glass  and  realized  that  the  best  skill  of  the  surgeon  had  not 
been  able  to  restore  its  lines. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  had  carefully  scanned  the  state 
press  during  his  seclusion  and  awoke  from  his  personal  estimate  to 
find  that  public  opinion  was  overwhelmingly  against  him.  He  had 
slandered  a  man  for  political  purposes  and  forced  a  fight  upon  a 
stranger  to  whom,  by  every  right  of  hospitality,  the  city  owed  a  wel 
come.  The  general  public  could  not  understand  why  he  had  entered 
1  upon  the  duel  if  his  charges  were  true,  and  if  not  true  why  he  had 
{  not  had  the  manliness  to  withdraw  them. 

Moreover,  he  had  incurred  the  deadly  enmity  of  the  people  who  had 
been  deceived  in  the  lost  county.  One  paper  alluded  to  the  unpleasant 
fact  that  Edward  Morgan  was  defending  and  aiding  Mr.  Royson's  con 
nections  at  the  time  of  the  insult. 

He  had  heard  no  word  from  Swearingen,  who  evidently  felt  that 
the  matter  was  too  hot  at  both  ends  for  him  to  handle  safely.  That 
gentleman  had,  on  the  contrary,  in  a  brief  card  to  cne  of  the  papers, 
disclaimed  any  knowledge  of  the  unfortunate  letter  and  declined  all 
responsibility  for  it.  This  was  sufficient,  it  would  seem,  to  render  al- 


THE  TRADE  WITH  SLIPPERY  DICK  173 

most  any  man  unhappy,  but  the  climax  was  reached  when  he  received 
a  letter  from  Annie,  scoring  him  unmercifully  for  his  clumsiness  and 
informing  him  that  Edward  Morgan,  so  far  from  being  destroyed  m  a 
certain  quarter,  was  being  received  in  the  house  as  a  friend  to  whom 
all  were  indebted,  and  was  petted  and  made  much  of. 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge,"  she  added,  maliciously,  "it  seems  settled 
that  Mary  is  to  marry  him.  He  is  much  with  Col.  Montjoy  and  is  now 
upon  a  confidental  footing  with  everyone  here.  Practically  he  is  al 
ready  a  member  of  the  family."  It  contained  a  request  for  him  to  in 
form  her  when  he  would  be  in  his  office. 

He  had  not  replied  to  this;  he  felt  that  the  letter  was  aimed  at 
his  peace  of  mind  and  the  only  satisfaction  he  could  get  out  of  this 
affair  was  the  recollection  that  he  had  informed  her  father-in-law  of 
her  perfidy. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  old  gentleman's  mind  at  work  with  Annie 
purring  around  him,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  the  idea  brought  the  first 
smile  his  face  had  known  for  many  a  day.  But  a  glimpse  of  that  face 
in  the  glass,  with  the  smile  upon  it,  startled  him  again. 

What  next?  Surrender?  There  was  no  surrender  in  the  make-up 
of  the  man.  His  legal  success  had  hinged  less  upon  ability  than  upon 
dogged  pertinacity.  In  this  way  he  had  saved  the  life  of  more  than 
one  criminal  and  won  a  reputation  that  brought  him  practice.  He 
had  made  a  charge,  had  been  challenged  and  had  fought.  With  al 
most  any  other  man  the  issue  would  have  been  at  an  end  as  honorably 
settled,  but  his  habit  of  mind  was  opposed  to  accepting  anything  as  set 
tled  which  was  clearly  unsettled.  The  duel  did  not  give  Morgan  the 
rights  of  a  gentleman  if  the  main  charge  were  true,  and  Royson  had 
convinced  himself  that  it  was  true.  He  wrote  to  Annie,  assured  that 
her  visit  would  develop  his  next  move. 

So  it  was  that  one  morning  Royson  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  cousin,  in  the  office.  There  was  no  word  of  sympathy  for  him.  He 
had  not  expected  one,  but  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  half-smile 
which  came  over  her  face  when  he  greeted  her,  and  which,  during 
their  interview,  returned  from  time  to  time.  This  enraged  him  be 
yond  endurance,  and  nothing  but  the  remembrance  that  she  alone  held 
the  key  to  the  situation  prevented  his  coming  to  an  open  breach  with 
her.  She  saw  and  read  his  struggle  aright,  and  the  display  put  her 
in  the  best  of  humor. 

"When  shall  we  see  you  at  The  Hall  again?"  she  asked,  coolly. 

"Never,"  he  said,  passionately,  "until  this  man  Morgan  is  exposed 


174  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  driven  out."     She  arched  her  brows. 

"Never,  then,  would  have  been  sufficient." 

"Annie,  this  man  must  be  exposed;  you  have  the  proofs — you  have 
information;  give  it  to  me."  She  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

"I  have  changed  my  mand,  Amos;  I  do  not  want  to  be  on  bad  terms 
with  my  brother-in-law  of  the  future;  the  fact  is,  I  am  getting  fond 
of  him.  He  is  very  kind  to  everybody.  Mother  is  to  go  to  Paris  to  have 
her  eyes  attended  to,  and  Mary  is  to  accompany  her.  Mr.  Morgan 
has  been  accepted  as  their  escort." 

The  face  of  the  man  grew  crimson  with  suppressed  rage.  By  a  su 
preme  effort  he  recovered  and  returned  the  blow. 

"What  a  pity,  Annie,  it  could  not  have  been  you!  Paris  has  been 
your  hobby  for  years.  When  Mary  returns  she  can  tell  you  how  to 
dress  in  the  best  form  and  correct  your  French."  It  was  a  successful 
counter.  She  was  afraid  to  trust  herself  to  reply.  Royson  drew  his 
chair  nearer. 

"Annie,"  he  said,  "I  would  give  ten  years  of  life  to  establish  the 
truth  of  what  you  have  told  me.  So  far  as  Mary  is  concerned,  we 
will  leave  that  out,  but  I  am  determined  to  crush  this  fellow  Morgan 
at  any  cost.  Something  tells  me  we  have  a  common  cause  in  this  mat 
ter.  Give  me  a  starting  point — you  owe  me  something.  I  could  have 
involved  you;  I  fought  it  out  alone."  She  reflected  a  moment. 

"I  cannot  help  you  now  as  much  as  you  may  think.  I  am  convinced 
cf  what  I  told  you,  but  the  direct  proof  is  wanting.  You  can  imagine 
how  difficult  such  proof  is.  The  man  is  thirty  years  old,  probably,  and 
witnesses  of  his  mother's  times  are  old  or  dead." 

"And  what  witnesses  could  there  have  been?" 

"Few.  John  Morgan  is  gone.  The  next  witness  would  be  Rita.  Rita 
is  the  woman  who  kept  Morgan's  house  for  the  last  thirty  years.  She 
owned  a  little  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  The  Hall  and  was  until 
she  went  to  Morgan's  a  professional  nurse.  There  may  be  old  negroes 
who  can  give  you  points." 

"And  Rita — where  is  she?" 

"Dead!" 

A  shade  of  disappointment  swept  over  his  face.  He  caught  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  with  the  most  peculiar  expression.  "She  is  the  wit 
ness  on  whom  I  relied,"  she  said,  slowly.  "She  was,  I  believe,  the  only 
human  being  in  the  world  who  could  have  furnished  conclusive  testi 
mony  as  to  the  origin  of  Edward  Morgan.  She  died  suddenly  the  day 
your  letter  was  published!"  She  did  not  look  away  as  she  concluded, 
your  letter  was  published!"  She  did  not  look  away  as  she  paused, 


THE  TRADE  WITH  SLIPPERY  DICK  175 

but  continued  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his ;  and  gradually,  as  he  watch 
ed  her,  the  brows  contracted  slightly  and  the  lids  tightened  under  them. 
A  gleam  of  intelligence  passed  to  him.  His  face  grew  white  and  his 
hands  closed  convulsively  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"But  that  would  be  beyond  belief,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  whisper. 
"If  what  you  think  is  true,  he  was  her  son!"  She  raised  her  brow 
as  she  replied: 

"There  was  no  tie  of  association!  With  him  everything  was  at 
stake.  You  can  probably  understand  that  when  a  man  is  in  love  he 
will  risk  a  great  deal." 

Royson  arose  and  walked  the  room.  No  man  knew  better  than  he 
the  worst  side  of  the  human  heart.  There  is  nothing  so  true  in  the 
history  of  crime  as  that  reputation  is  held  higher  than  conscience.  And 
in  this  case  there  was  the  terrible  passion  of  love.  He  did  not  reply 
to  her  insinuation. 

"You  think,  then,"  he  said,  stopping  in  front  of  the  woman,  "that, 
reading  my  letter,  he  hurried  home — and  in  this  you  are  correct  since 
I  saw  him  across  the  street  reading  the  paper,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  throw  himself  into  a  hack  and  take  that  direction — that  he 
rushed  into  the  presence  of  this  woman,  demanded  the  truth,  and,  re 
ceiving  it,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  killed  her!" 

"What  I  may  think,  Amos,  is  my  right  to  keep  to  myself.  The  only 
witness  died  that  day!  There  was  no  inquest!  You  asked  me  for  a 
starting  point."  She  drew  her  gloves  a  little  tighter,  shook  out  her 
parasol  and  rose.  "But  I  am  giving  you  too  much  of  my  time.  I 
have  some  commissions  from  Mary,  who  is  getting  ready  for  Paris,  and 
I  must  leave  you." 

He  neither  heard  her  last  remark  nor  saw  her  go.  Standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  his  chin  upon  his  chest,  he  was  lost  to  all  con 
sciousness  of  the  moment.  When  he  looked  to  the  chair  she  had  occu 
pied  it  was  vacant.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  The  scene 
seemed  to  have  been  in  a  dream. 

But  Amos  Royson  knew  it  was  real.  He  had  asked  for  a  starting 
point,  and  the  woman  had  given  it. 

As  he  considered  it,  he  unconsciously  betrayed  how  closely  akin  he 
was  to  the  woman,  for  every  fact  that  came  to  him  was  in  that  legal 
mind,  trained  to  building  theories,  adjusted  in  support  of  the  hypoth 
esis  of  crime.  He  was  again  the  prosecuting  attorney.  How  natural 
at  least  was  such  a  crime,  supposing  Morgan  capable  of  it. 

And  no  man  knew  his  history! 


176  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

With  one  blow  he  had  swept  away  the  witness.  That  had  done  a 
thousand  times  in  the  annals  of  crime.  Poison,  the  ambush,  the  street 
encounter,  the  midnight  shot  through  the  open  window,  the  fusillade 
at  the  form  outlined  in  its  own  front  door;  the  press  had  recorded  it 
since  the  beginning  of  newspapers.  Morgan  had  added  one  more  in 
stance.  And  if  he  had  not,  the  suspicion,  the  investigation,  the  doubt 
would  remain! 

At  this  point  by  a  perfectly  natural  process  the  mind  of  the  man 
reached  its  conclusion.  Why  need  there  be  any  suspicion,  any  doubt? 
Why  might  not  an  inquest  develop  evidences  of  a  crime?  This  idea 
involved  action  and  decision  upon  his  part,  and  some  risk. 

At  last  he  arose  from  the  desk,  where,  with  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
he  had  studied  so  long,  and  prepared  for  action.  At  the  lavatory  he 
caught  sight  of  his  own  countenance  in  the  glass.  It  told  him  that 
his  mind  was  made  up.  It  was  war  to  the  knife,  and  that  livid  scar 
upon  the  pallor  of  his  face  was  but  the  record  of  the  first  failure. 
The  next  battle  would  not  be  in  the  open,  with  the  skies  blue  above 
him  and  no  shelter  at  hand.  His  victim  would  never  see  the  knife  de 
scend,  but  it  would  descend  nevertheless,  and  this  time  there  would 
be  no  trembling  hand  or  failure  of  nerve. 

From  his  office  he  went  direct  to  the  coroner's  and  examined  the 
records.  The  last  inquest  was  of  the  day  previous;  the  next  in  line 
more  than  a  month  before.  There  was  no  woman's  name  upon  the 
list.  So  far  Annie  was  right. 

Outside  of  cities  in  the  south  no  burial  permits  are  required.  Who 
was  the  undertaker?  Inquiry  would  easily  develop  the  fact,  but  this 
time  he  himself  was  to  remain  in  the  dark.  If  this  crime  was  fasten 
ed  upon  Morgan,  the  motive  would  be  self-evident  and  a  reaction  of 
public  opinion  would  re-establish  Royson  high  in  favor.  His  ex 
perience  would  rank  as  martyrdom. 

But  a  new  failure  would  destroy  him  forever,  and  there  was  not 
a  great  deal  left  to  destroy,  he  felt. 

In  the  community,  somewhere,  was  a  negro  whose  only  title  was 
"Slippery  Dick,"  won  in  many  a  hotly  contested  criminal  trial.  It  had 
been  said  of  this  man  that  the  entire  penal  code  was  exhausted  in  ef 
forts  to  convict  him,  and  always  without  success.  He  had  been  pros 
ecuted  for  nearly  every  offense  proscribed  by  state  laws.  Royson's 
first  experience  with  the  man  was  as  prosecuting  attorney.  Afterward 
and  within  the  preceding  year  he  had  defended  him  in  a  trial  for 
body-snatching  and  had  secured  a  verdict  by  getting  upon  the  jury 


THE  FACE  OF  THE  BODY-SNATCHER        177 

one  man  who  was  closely  kin  to  the  person  who  purchased  the  awful 
merchandise.  This  negro,  plausible  and  cunning,  hesitated  at  noth 
ing  short  of  open  murder — or  such  was  his  reputation.  It  was  to  find 
him  that  Roy  son  went  abroad.  Nor  was  it  long  before  he  succeeded. 

That  night,  in  a  lonely  cabin  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  a  trade  was 
made.  Ten  dollars  in  hand  was  paid.  If  upon  an  inquest  by  the  cor 
oner  it  was  found  that  there  was  a  small  wound  on  the  back  of  the 
head  of  the  woman  and  the  skull  fractured,  Slippery  Dick  was  to  re 
ceive  $100  more. 

This  was  the  only  risk  Royson  would  permit  himself  to  take,  and 
there  were  no  witnesses  to  the  trade.  Dick's  word  was  worth  noth 
ing.  Discovery  could  not  affect  the  plot  seriously,  and  Dick  never 
confessed.  The  next  day  he  met  Annie  upon  the  road,  having  seen 
her  in  the  city,  and  posted  himself  to  intercept  her. 

"I  have  investigated  the  death  of  Rita,"  he  said,  "and  am  satisfied 
that  there  are  no  grounds  for  suspecting  murder.  We  shall  wait!" 
The  woman  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Amos,"  she  said,  "if  you  were  not  my  cousin,  I  would  say  that 
you  are  an  accomplished  liar!"  Before  he  replied  there  was  heard 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet.  Edward  Morgan  drove  by,  gravely  lifting 
his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
THE  FACE  OF  THE  BODY-SNATCHER. 

The  methods  of  Royson's  emissary  were  simple  and  direct-  One 
day  he  wandered  in  among  the  negroes  at  Ilexhurst  in  search  of  a  lost 
hound  puppy,  for  Dick  was  a  mighty  hunter,  especially  of  the  mid 
night  'possum. 

No  one  had  seen  the  puppy,  but  all  were  ready  to  talk,  and  the 
death  of  Rita  had  been  the  latest  sensation.  From  them  he  obtained 
every  detail  from  the  time  Edward  had  carried  the  body  in  his  arms 
to  the  little  house,  until  it  had  been  buried  under  the  crooked  cedar  in 
the  plantation  burying-ground. 

The  body  had  been  dressed  by  two  of  the  women.  There  had  been 
a  little  blood  on  her  head,  from  a  small  wound  in  the  left  temple, 


178  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

where  she  had  cut  herself  against  the  glass  when  she  was  "taken  with 
a  fit." 

The  coffin  was  a  heavy  metal  one  and  the  top  screwed  on.  That  was 
all. 

When  Royson  received  the  report  of  the  cut  in  the  head  and  the 
blood,  his  breath  almost  forsook  him.  Morgan  might  have  been  in 
nocent,  but  what  a  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence!  If  Dick  should 
return  to  tell  him  some  morning  that  the  false  wound  he  was  to  make 
was  already  on  the  spot  selected,  he  would  not  be  surprised.  So  far 
he  could  show  a  motive  for  the  crime,  and  every  circumstance  nec 
essary  to  convict  his  enemy  with  it.  All  he  needed  was  a  cause  of  death. 

Dick's  precautions  in  this  venture  were  novel,  from  the  Caucasian 
standpoint.  His  supersition  was  the  strongest  feature  of  his  de 
praved  mind.  The  negro*  has  an  instinctive  dread  of  dead  bodies,  but 
a  dead  and  buried  cadaver  is  to  him  a  horror. 

In  this  instance,  however,  Dick's  superstition  made  his  sacrilege 
possible;  for  while  he  believed  firmly  in  the  reappearance  and  power 
of  departed  spirits,  he  believed  equally  in  the  powers  of  the  voodoo 
to  control  or  baffle  them.  Before  undertaking  his  commission,  he 
went  to  one  of  these  voodoo  "doctors,"  who  had  befriended  him  in  more 
than  one  peril,  and  by  the  gift  of  a  fat  'possum  secured  a  charm  to 
protect  him. 

The  dark  hour  came,  and  at  midnight  to  the  little  clump  of  trees 
came  also  Slippery  Dick.  His  first  act  was  to  bore  a  hole  with  an 
auger  in  the  cedar,  insert  the  voodoo  charm  and  plug  the  hole  firmly. 
This  chained  the  spirit  of  the  dead.  Then  with  a  spade  and  work 
ing  rapidly,  he  threw  the  mound  aside  and  began  to  toss  out  the  earth 
from  above  the  coffin.  In  half  an  hour  his  spade  laid  the  wooden  case 
bare.  Some  difficulty  was  experienced  in  removing  the  screws,  but 
down  in  that  cavity,  the  danger  from  using  matches  was  reduced  to 
a  minimum,  and  by  the  aid  of  these  he  soon  loosened  the  lid  and  re 
moved  it.  To  lift  this  out,  and  take  off  the  metal  top  of  the  burial 
case,  was  the  work  of  but  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  the  remains  of 
poor  Rita  were  exposed  to  view. 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  his  arrival  Slippery  Dick  had  executed 
his  commission  and  was  filling  up  the  grave.  With  the  utmost  care 
he  pressed  down  the  earth  and  drew  up  the  loosened  soil. 

There  had  been  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers  upon  the  mound;  he  re 
stored  these  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  shouldered  his  spade  and  auger 
and  took  his  departure,  glad  to  leave  the  grewsome  spot. 


THE  FACE  OF  THE  BODY-SNATCHER        179 

But  a  dramatic  pantomime  had  been  enacted  near  him  which  he 
never  saw.  While  he  was  engaged  in  marking  the  head  of  the  lifeless 
body,  the  slender  form  of  a  man  appeared  above  him  and  shrank 
back  in  horror  at  the  discovery.  This  man  turned  and  picked  up  the 
heavy  spade  and  swung  it  in  air.  If  it  had  descended  the  negro  would 
have  been  brained.  But  thought  is  a  monarch !  Slowly  the  arm  de 
scended,  the  spade  was  laid  upon  the  ground,  and  the  form  a  moment 
before  animated  with  an  overwhelming  passion  stood  silent  and  motion 
less  behind  the  cedar. 

When  the  negro  withdrew,  this  man  followed,  gliding  from  cover  to 
cover,  or  following  boldly  in  the  open,  but  at  all  times  with  a  tread 
as  soft  as  a  panther's.  Down  they  went,  the  criminal  and  his  shadow, 
down  into  the  suburbs,  then  into  the  streets  and  then  into  the  heart 
of  the  city.  Near  the  office  of  Amos  Royson  the  man  in  front  uttered 
a  peculiar  whistle  and  passed  on.  At  the  next  corner  under  the  elec 
tric  lamp  he  turned  and  found  himself  confronted  by  a  slender  man, 
whose,  face  shone  white  under  the  ghastly  light  of  the  lamp,  whose 
hair  hung  upon  his  shoulders,  and  whose  eyes  were  distended  with  ex 
citement.  Uttering  a  cry  of  fright,  the  negro  sprang  from  the  side 
walk  into  the  gutter,  but  the  other  passed  on  without  turning  except 
to  cross  the  street,  where  in  a  friendly  shadow  he  stopped.  And  as  he 
stood  there  the  negro  retraced  his  steps  and  paused  at  the  door  of  the 
lawyer's  office.  A  dimly  outlined  form  was  at  the  window  above. 
They  had  no  more  than  time  to  exchange  a  word  when  the  negro  went 
on  and  the  street  was  bare,  except  that  a  square  away  a  heavy-footed 
policeman  was  approaching. 

The  man  in  the  shadow  leaned  his  head  against  a  tree  and  thought.  In 
his  brain,  standing  out  as  distinct  as  if  cut  from  black  marble,  was 
the  face  of  the  man  he  had  followed. 

Gerald  possessed  the  reasoning  faculty  to  an  eminent  degree,  but 
it  had  been  trained  altogether  upon  abstract  propositions.  The  small 
affairs  of  life  were  strange  and  remote  to  him,  and  the  passions  that 
animate  the  human  breast  were  forces  and  agencies  beyond  his  knowl 
edge  and  calculations. 

Annie  Montjoy,  with  the  facts  in  his  possession,  would  have  reached 
instantly  a  correct  conclusion  as  to  their  meaning.  He  could  not 
handle  them.  His  mind  was  absolutely  free  of  suspicion.  He  had 
wandered  to  the  little  graveyard,  as  he  had  before  when  sleepless  and 
harassed,  and  discovered  that  some  one  was  disfiguring  the  body  of 
his  lifelong  friend.  To  seize  the  spade  and  wreak  vengeance  upon  the 


180  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

intruder  was  his  first  impulse,  but  at  the  moment  that  it  should  have 
fallen  he  saw  that  the  head  of  the  woman  was  being  carefully  replaced 
in  position  and  the  clothing  arranged.  He  paused  in  wonder.  The 
habitual  opium-eater  develops  generally  a  cunning  that  is  incompre 
hensible  to  the  normal  mind,  and  curiosity  now  controlled  Gerald.  The 
moment  for  action  had  passed.  He  withdrew  behind  the  tree  to  witness 
the  conclusion  of  the  drama. 

His  following  the  retreating  figure  was  but  the  continuance  of  his 
new  mood.  He  would  see  the  affair  out  and  behold  the  face  of  the 
man.  Succeeding  in  this  he  went  home,  revolving  in  mind  the  strange 
experience  he  had  gained. 

But  the  excitement  would  not  pass  away  from  him,  and  in  the  sol 
itude  of  his  studio,  with  marvelous  skill  he  drew  in  charcoal  the  scene 
as  it  shone  in  memory — the  mart  in  the  grave,  the  sad,  dead  face  of 
the  woman,  shrinking  into  dissolution,  and  then  its  every  detail  per 
fect,  upon  a  separate  sheet  the  face  of  the  man  under  the  lamp.  The 
memories  no  longer  haunted  him.  They  were  transferred  to  paper. 

Then  Gerald  underwent  the  common  struggle  of  his  existence ;  he  lay 
down  and  tossed  upon  his  pillow ;  he  arose  and  read  and  returned  again. 
At  last  came  the  surrender,  opium  and — oblivion. 

Standing  by  the  easel  next  morning,  Virdow  said  to  Edward:  "The 
brain  cannot  survive  this  many  years.  When  dreams  of  memories  such 
as  these,  vivid  enough  to  be  remembered  and  drawn,  come  upon  it, 
when  the  waking  mind  holds  them  vivid,  it  is  in  a  critical  condition." 
He  looked  sadly  upon  the  sleeper  and  felt  the  white  wrist  that  overlay 
the  counterpane.  The  flesh  was  cold,  the  pulse  slow  and  feeble.  "Vi 
tality  small,"  he  said.  "It  will  be  sudden  when  it  comes;  sleep  will 
simply  extend  into  eternity." 

Edward's  mind  reverted  to  the  old  general.  What  was  his  own  duty? 
He  would  decide.  It  might  be  that  he  would  return  no  more,  and  if  he 
did  not,  and  Gerald  was  left,  he  should  have  a  protector. 

Virdow  had  been  silent  and  thoughtful.  Now  he  turned  with  sudden 
decision. 

"My  experiments  will  probably  end  with  the  next,"  he  said.  "The 
truth  is,  I  am  so  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  cultivation  of  this 
singular  power  which  Gerald  possesses  is  destructive  of  the  nervous 
system  I  cannot  go  on  with  them.  In  some  way  the  young  man  has 
wound  himself  about  me.  I  will  care  for  him  as  I  would  a  son.  He 
is  all  gold."  The  old  man  passed  out  abruptly,  ashamed  of  the  feel 
ing  which  shook  his  voice. 


THE   GRAVE   IN  THE   PAST  181 

But  Edward  sat  upon  the  bed  and  taking  the  white  hand  in  his  own, 
smoothed  it  gently,  and  gave  himself  up  to  thought.  What  did  it 
mean?  And  how  would  it  end?  The  sleeper  stirred  slightly.  "Mother," 
he  said,  and  a  childish  smile  dwelt  for  a  moment  upon  his  lips.  Ed 
ward  replaced  the  hand  upon  the  counterpane  and  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  PAST. 

When  Col.  Montjoy  rode  over  to  Gen.  Evan's,  a  few  mornings  after 
the  operation  upon  his  wife's  eyes,  it  was  with  but  ill-defined  notions 
of  what  he. would  say  or  what  would  be  the  result  of  the  interview. 
Circumstances  had  placed  him  in  a  strange  and  unpleasant  position. 

Col.  Montjoy  felt  that  the  Paris  trip  could  not  be  well  avoided.  He 
realized  that  the  chances  of  accomplishing  any  real  good  for  his  wife 
were  very  small,  but  Dr.  Campbell  had  distinctly  favored  it,  and  the 
hesitancy  had  evidently  only  been  on  account  of  the  cost. 

But  could  he  accept  the  generous  offer  made  by  Morgan?  That  was 
the  embarrassing  question.  He  was  not  mentally  blind;  he  felt  as 
sured  that  the  real  question  for  him  to  decide  then  was  what  he  should 
answer  when  a  demand  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter  was  made.  For 
in  accepting  the  loan  and  escort  of  Edward  Morgan,  he  accepted  him. 
Could  he  do  this? 

So  far  as  the  rumors  about  the  young  man  were  concerned,  he  never 
entertained  them  seriously.  He  regarded  them  only  as  a  desperate 
political  move,  and  so  did  the  public  generally.  But  a  shadow  ought 
not  to  hang  over  the  life  of  his  daughter. 

The  old  general  was  at  home  and  partially  read  his  visitor's  predic 
ament  in  his  face  as  he  approached  the  veranda. 

"Come  in,  Norton,"  he  said  without  moving  from  his  great  rocker; 
"what  is  troubling  you?"  And  he  laughed  maliciously.  "But  by  the 
way,"  he  added,  "how  is  the  madam  to-day?  Mary  told  me  yesterday 
she  was  getting  along  finely." 

"Well,  we  can't  tell,  Evan,"  said  his  visitor,  drawing  his  chair  next 
to  the  rail;  "we  can't  tell.  In  fact,  nothing  will  be  known  until  the 
bandages  are  removed.  I  came  off  without  my  tobacco — "  He  was 
holding  his  pipe.  The  general  passed  him  his  box. 


182  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Oh,  well,  she  will  come  through  all  right;  Campbell  is  never  mis 
taken." 

"That  is  true,  and  that  is  what  troubles  me.  Campbell  predicts  a 
return  of  the  trouble  and  thinks  in  the  near  future  her  only  chance 
for  vision  will  lie  in  the  eye  which  has  been  blind  for  several  years. 
He  is  willing  to  admit  that  Moreau  in  Paris  is  better  authority  and 
would  be  glad  for  Caroline  to  see  him  and  have  his  opinion." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  It  was  expressive.  The  colonel  knew  that  Evan  com 
prehended  the  situation,  if  not  the  whole  of  it.  If  there  had  been  any 
doubt,  it  would  have  been  dispelled  by  the  next  words: 

"A  great  expense,  Norton,  in  these  days,  but  it  must  be  attended 
to."  Col.  Montjoy  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  passed  it  over 
his  brow  nervously. 

"The  trouble  is,  Evan,  the  matter  has  been  attended  to,  and  too  easily. 
Edward  Morgan  was  present  during  the  operation  and  has  offered 
to  lend  me  all  the  money  necessary  for  the  trip  with  or  without  security 
and  with  or  without  interest."  The  general  shook  with  silent  laughter 
and  succeeded  in  getting  enough  smoke  down  his  throat  to  induce  a 
disguising  cough. 

"That  is  a  trouble,  Norton,  that  hasn't  afflicted  us  old  fellows  much 
of  late — extra  ease  in  money  matters.  Edward  is  rich  and  will  not 
be  in  any  way  embarrassed  by  a  matter  like  this.  I  think  you  will 
do  well  to  make  it  a  business  transaction  and  accept." 

"You  do  not  understand.  I  have  noticed  marked  attentions  to  Mary 
on  the  part  of  the  young  man,  and  Mary,"  he  said,  sadly,  "is,  I  am 
afraid,  interested  in  him." 

"That  is  different.  Before  you  decide  on  accepting  this  offer,  you 
feel  that  you  must  decide  on  the  young  man  himself,  I  see.  What  do 
you  think?" 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  think  intelligently,  I  am  afraid,  upon  that 
point.  What  do  you  think,  Evan?  Mary  is  about  as  much  your  prop 
erty  as  mine." 

"I  think,"  said  the  general,  throwing  off  his  disguise,  "that  in  Ed 
ward  Morgan  she  will  get  the  only  man  I  ever  saw  to  whom  I  would 
be  willing  to  give  her  up.  He  is  as  straight  and  as  brave  as  any  man 
that  ever  followed  me  into  battle."  Montjoy  was  silent  awhile. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  value  your  opinion  more  than 
any  man's  and  I  do  not  wish  to  express  or  to  intimate  a  doubt  of  Mr. 
Morgan,  who,  I  see,  has  impressed  you.  I  believe  the  letter  of  Roy- 
con's  was  infamous  and  untrue  in  every  respect,  but  it  has  been  pub- 


THE   GRAVE   IN  THE   PAST  183 

lished — and  she  is  my  daughter.     Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
hasn't  he  come  to  me  and  given  me  something  to  go  upon?" 

"It  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  the  general,  dryly,  "that  he  will  do 
•o  when  he  comes  for  Mary.  In  the  meantime,  a  man  isn't  called  up 
on  to  travel  with  a  family  tree  under  his  arm  and  show  it  to  every 
one  who  questions  him.  Morgan  is  a  gentleman,  sans  peur  et  sans 
reprcche.  If  he  is  not,  I  do  not  know  the  breed. 

"So  far  as  the  charge  of  Royson  is  concerned,"  continued  the  gen 
eral,  "let  me  calm  your  mind  on  that  point.  I  have  never  entered 
upon  this  matter  with  you  because  the  mistakes  of  a  man's  kindred 
are  things  he  has  no  right  to  gossip  about,  even  among  friends.  The 
woman,  Rita  Morgan,  has  always  been  free;  she  was  given  her  free 
dom  in  infancy  by  John  Morgan's  father.  Her  mother's  history  is 
an  unfortunate  one.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  she  was  sent  out  from 
Virginia  with  John  Morgan's  mother,  who  was,  as  you  know,  a  blood 
relative  of  mine;  and  I  know  that  this  woman  was  sent  away  with 
an  object.  She  looked  confoundedly  like  some  of  the  family.  Well, 
John  Morgan's  father  was  wild;  you  can  guess  the  result. 

"Rita  lived  in  her  own  house,  and  when  her  husband  died  John  took 
her  to  his  home.  He  told  me  once  in  so  many  words  that  his  father 
left  instructions  outside  his  will  to  that  effect,  and  that  Rita's  claims  \ 
upon  the  old  man,  as  far  as  blood  was  concerned,  were  about  the  same 
as  his.  You  see  from  this  that  the  Royson  story  is  an  absurdity.  I 
knew  it  when  I  went  in  and  vouched  for  our  young  friend,  and  I  would 
have  proved  it  to  Thomas  the  night  he  called^  but  Rita  dropped  dead 
that  day." 

Montjoy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"You  astonish  me,"  he  said,  "and  relieve  me  greatly.  I  had  never 
heard  this.  I  did  not  really  doubt,  but  you  have  cleared  up  all  pos 
sibility  of  error." 

"Nor  has  any  other  man  heard  the  story.  My  conversation  with 
John  Morgan  grew  out  of  his  offer  to  buy  of  me  Alec,  a  very  handsome 
mulatto  man  I  owned,  to  whom  Rita  had  taken  a  fancy.  He  wanted 
to  buy  him  and  free  him,  but  I  had  never  bought  or  sold  a  slave,  and 
could  not  bring  myself  to  accept  money  for  Alec.  I  freed  him  myself. 
John  was  not  willing  for  her  to  marry  a  slave.  They  were  married 
and  he  died  in  less  than  a  year.  That  is  Rita's  history.  When  AleC 
died  Rita  went  to  John  Morgan  and  kept  house  for  him. 

"When  it  was  that  Gerald  came  in  I  do  not  know,"  pursued  the  gen 
eral  musingly.  "The  boy  was  nearly  grown  before  I  heard  of  him. 


I 


184  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

He  and  Edward  are  children  of  distant  relatives,  I  am  told.  John 
never  saw  the  latter  at  all,  probably,  but  educated  him  and,  finding 
Gerald  incapacitated,  very  wisely  left  his  property  to  the  other,  with 
Gerald  in  his  charge. 

"No,  I  have  taken  the  greatest  fancy  to  these  two  young  fellows, 
although  I  only  have  known  one  a  few  weeks  and  the  other  by  sight 
and  reputation."  He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  his  careless  tone 
had  desecrated  a  sacred  scene ;  the  face  of  the  sleeper  rose  to  his  mind. 
"But  they  are  game  and  thoroughbreds.  Accept  the  proposition  and 
shut  your  eyea  to  the  future.  It  will  all  work  out  rightly."  Montjoy 
shook  his  head  sadly. 

"I  will  accept  it,"  he  said,  "but  only  because  it  means  a  chance  for 
Caroline  which  otherwise  she  would  not  have.  Of  course  you  know 
Mary  is  going  with  her,  and  Morgan  is  to  be  their  escort?" 

The  general  uttered  a  prolonged  whistle  and  then  laughed.  "Well, 
confound  the  little  darling,  to  think  she  should  come  over  here  and 
tell  me  all  the  arrangements  and  leave  herself  out;  Montjoy,  that  is 
the  only  one  of  your  family  born  without  grit;  tell  her  so.  She  is 
afraid  of  one  old  man's  tongue." 

"Here  she  comes,  with  Morgan,"  said  Montjoy,  smiling.  "Tell  her 
yourself." 

Edward's  buggy  was  approaching  rapidly  and  the  flushed  and  hap 
py  face  of  the  girl  could  be  seen  within. 

"Plotting  against  me,"  she  called  out,  as  she  descended,  "and  I  dare 
you  to  own  it."  The  general  said: 

"On  the  contrary,  I  was  about  telling  your  father  what  a  brave 
little  woman  you  are.  Come  in,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  added,  seeing  from 
her  blushes  that  she  understood  him. 

"Mr.  Morgan  was  coming  over  to  see  the  general,"  said  Mary,  "and 
I  came  with  him  to  ride  back  with  papa."  And,  despite  the  protests 
of  all  the  others,  he  presently  got  Mary  into  the  buggy  and  carried 
her  off.  "You  will  stop  as  you  come  by,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  called  out. 
"I  will  be  glad  to  see  you  on  a  matter  of  business." 

The  buggy  was  yet  in  sight  when*  Edward  turned  to  his  old  friend 
and  said: 

"Gen.  Evan,  I  have  come  to  make  a  statement  to  you,  based  upon 
long  reflection  and  a  sense  of  justice.  I  am  about  to  leave  the  state 
for  France,  and  may  never  return.  There  are  matters  connected  with 
my  family  which  I  feel  you  should  know,  and  I  prefer  to  speak  rather 
than  write  them."  He  paused  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  general 


THE   GRAVE   IN  THE   PAST  185 

looking  straight  ahead  and  recalling  the  conversation  just  had  with 
Col.  Montjoy.  "If  I  seem  to  trespass  on  forbidden  grounds  or  stir 
unpleasant  memories,  I  trust  you  will  hear  me  through  before  con 
demning  me.  Many  years  ago  you  lost  a  daughter " 

"Go  on,"  said  the  general  as  Edward  paused  and  looked  doubtfully 
toward  him. 

"She  was  to  have  married  my  uncle,  I  am  informed,  but  she  did  not. 
On  the  contrary,  she  married  a  foreigner — her  music  teacher.  Is  thi« 
not  true?" 

"Go  on." 

"She  went  abroad,  but  unknown  to  you  she  came  back  and  her  chili 
was  born." 

"Ah."  The  sound  that  came  from  the  old  man's  lips  was  almost  a 
gasp.  For  the  first  time  since  the  recital  was  begun  he  turned  his 
eyes  upon  his  companion. 

"At  this  birth,  which  took  place  probably  at  Ilexhurst,  possibly  in 
the  house  of  Rita  Morgan,  whose  death  you  know  of,  occurred  the 
birth  of  Rita's  child  also.  Your  daughter  disappeared.  Rita  was  de 
lirious,  and  when  she  recovered  could  not  be  convinced  that  this  child 
was  not  her  own;  and  she  thought  him  her  son  until  the  day  of  her 
death." 

"Where  is  this  child?"  Why  was  I  not  informed"  The  old  general's 
voice  was  hoarse  and  his  words  scarcely  audible.  Edward,  looking 
him  full  in  the  face,  replied: 

"At  Ilexhurst!    His  name,  as  we  know  it,  is  Gerald  Morgan." 

Evan,  who  had  half  arisen,  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"And  this  is  your  belief,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"That  is  the  fact,  as  the  weight  of  evidence  declares.  The  woman 
in  health  did  not  claim  Gerald  for  her  son.  In  the  moment  of  her  death 
she  cried  out:  'They  lied!'  This  is  what  you  heard  in  the  yard  and 
I  repeated  it  at  that  time.  I  was,  as  you  know,  laboring  under  great 
excitement.  There  is  a  picture  of  your  daughter  at  Ilexhurst  and 
and  the  resemblance  it  strong.  You  yourself  were  struck  with  the 
family  resemblance. 

"I  felt  it  my  duty  to  speak,  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  to  trespass 
upon  your  best  feelings.  You  were  my  friend  when  I  needed  friends, 
and  had  I  concealed  this  I  would  have  been  ungrateful."  Edward  rose, 
but  the  general,  without  looking  up,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Morgan.  I  thank  you.  You  could  not  have  done 
less.  But  give  me  time  to  realize  what  this  means.  If  you  are  cor- 


186  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

rect,  I  have  a  grandson  at  Ilexhurst" — Edward  bowed  slightly — "whom 
my  daughter  abandoned  to  the  care  of  a  servant."  Again  Morgan 
bowed,  but  by  the  faintest  motion  of  his  head. 

"I  did  not  say  abandoned,"  he  corrected. 

"It  cannot  be  true,"  said  the  old  man;  "it  cannot  be  true.  She 
was  a  good  girl  and  even  infatuation  would  not  have  changed  her  char 
acter.  She  would  have  come  back  to  me." 

"If  she  could,"  said  Edward.  He  told  him  the  story  of  the  unfinished 
manuscript  and  the  picture  drawn  by  Gerald.  He  was  determined  to 
tell  him  all,  except  as  related  to  himself.  That  was  his  own  and  Vir- 
dow's  secret.  "If  that  story  is  true,  she  may  not  have  been  able  to  get 
to  you;  and  then  the  war  came  on;  you  must  know  all  before  you  can 
judge."  The  old  soldier  was  silent. 

He  got  up  with  apparent  difficulty  and  said  formally:  "Mr.  Morgan, 
I  will  be  glad  to  have  you  join  me  in  a  glass  of  wine.  I  am  not  as  vig 
orous  as  I  may  appear,  and  this  is  my  time  o'  day.  Come  in."  Ed 
ward  noticed  that,  as  he  followed,  the  general's  form  had  lost  some 
thing  of  its  martial  air. 

No  words  were  exchanged  over  the  little  southern  ceremony.  The 
general  merely  lifted  his  glass  slightly  and  bowed. 

The  room  was  cool  and  dark.  He  motioned  Edward  to  a  rocker  and 
sank  into  his  leather-covered  easy-chair.  T%here  was  a  minute's  sil 
ence  broken  by  the  elder  man. 

"What  is  your  belief,  Mr.  Morgan,  as  to  Gerald?" 

"The  facts  as  stated  are  all " 

"Nevertheless,  as  man  to  man — your  belief." 

"Then,  in  my  opinion,  the  evidence  points  to  Gerald  as  the  child  of 
this  woman  Rita.  I  am  sure  also  that  it  is  his  own  belief.  The  only 
disturbing  evidence  is  the  likeness,  but  Virdow  says  that  the  children 
of  servants  very  frequently  bear  likeness  to  a  mistress.  It  is  a  delicate 
question,  but  all  of  our  ancestors  were  not  immaculate.  Is  there  any 
thing  in  the  ancestry  of  Rita  Morgan — is  there  any  reason  why  her 
child  should  bear  a  likeness  to — to " 

The  general  lifted  his  hand  in  warning.  But  he  said:  "What  be 
came  of  the  other  child?"  The  question  did  not  disturb  or  surprise 
the  young  man.  He  expected  that  it  would  be  asked.  It  was  natural. 
Yet,  prepared  as  he  was,  his  voice  was  unsteady  when  he  replied: 

"That  I  do  not  know." 

"You  do  not  know!"  The  general's  tone  of  voice  was  peculiar.  Did 
he  doubt? 


THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN  187 

"I  had  two  objects  in  view  when  I  brought  up  this  subject,"  said 
Edward,  when  the  silence  grew  embarrassing;  "one  was  to  acquaint 
you  with  the  possibilities  out  at  Ilexhurst,  and  to  ask  your  good  offices 
for  Gerald  in  the  event  my  absence  is  prolonged  or  any  necessity  for 
assistance  should  arise.  The  other  is  to  find  the  second  child  if  it  is 
living  and  determine  Gerald's  status;  and,  with  this  as  my  main  ob 
ject,  I  venture  to  ask  you  if,  since  her  disappearance,  you  have  ever 
heard  of  Marion  Evan?" 

"God  help  me,"  said  Evan,  brokenly;  "yes.  But  it  was  too  soon;  too 
soon;  I  could  not  forgive  her." 

"And  since  then?"    The  old  man  moved  his  hand  slowly  and  let  it  fall. 

"Silence — oblivion." 

"Can  you  give  me  the  name  of  her  husband?"  Without  reply  the 
veteran  went  to  the  secretary  and  took  from  a  pigeonhole  a  well-worn 
letter. 

"No  eye  but  mine  has  ever  read  these  lines,"  he  said,  simply.  "I 
do  not  fear  to  trust  them  to  you!  Read!  I  cannot  now!" 

Edward's  hand  trembled  as  he  received  the  papers.  If  Rita  Morgan 
spoke  the  truth  he  was  about  to  look  upon  lines  traced  by  his  moth 
er's  hand.  It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
THE   PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN. 

Edward  opened  the  letter  with  deep  emotion.  The  handwriting  was 
small  and  unformed,  the  writing  of  schoolgirl.  It  read: 

"Jan.  3,  18 — .  My  Darling  Papa:  When  you  read  thig  I  will  be 
far  away  upon  the  ocean  and  separated  from  you  by  circumstances 
compared  with  which  leagues  are  but  trifles.  You  probably  know  them 
by  telegram  before  now,  but  I  cannot  leave  you  and  my  native  land 
without  a  farewell.  Papa,  I  am  now  the  wife  of  an  honorable,  lov 
ing  man,  and  happy  as  I  could  be  while  remembering  you  and  your 
loneliness.  Why  I  have  done  this,  why  I  have  taken  this  step  without 
coming  to  you  first  and  letting  you  decide,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  do  I 
know.  I  only  know  that  I  love  my  husband  as  I  have  never  loved  be- 


188  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

fore;  that  I  have  his  whole  affection;  that  he  wanted  me  to  go  with 
blindly,  and  that  I  have  obeyed.  That  is  all.  There  is  no  ingratitude 
in  my  heart,  no  lessening  of  affection  for  you;  you  still  are  to  me  the 
one  man  in  my  old  world;  but  my  husband  had  come  in  and  made  a 
new  world  of  it  all,  and  I  am  kis.  You  will  blame  me,  I  am  afraid, 
and  perhaps  disown  me.  If  so,  God  is  merciful  to  women  who  suffer 
for  those  they  love.  I  would  lay  down  my  life  for  Gaspard;  I  have  laid 
down  everything  dear  to  life.  We  go  to  his  childhood's  home  in  Silesia, 
where  with  the  money  he  has  saved  and  with  his  divine  art,  we  hope 
to  be  happy  and  face  the  world  without  fear.  Oh,  papa,  if  you  could 
only  forgive  me;  if  you  could  remember  your  own  love  for  that  beauti 
ful  mamma  of  whom  you  never  tired  telling,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  is 
near  me  now;  if  you  could  remember  and  forgive  me,  the  world  would 
hold  nothing  that  I  would  exchange  a  thought  for.  Gaspard  is  noble 
and  manly.  You  would  admire  him  and  he  would  adore  you,  as  do  I, 
your  only  child.  Papa,  you  will  write  to  me;  a  father  can  never  for 
sake  his  child.  If  I  am  wrong,  you  cannot  forsake  me;  if  I  am  right, 
you  cannot.  There  is  no  arrangement  in  all  God's  providence  for  such 
a  contingency,  and  Christ  did  not  turn  even  from  the  woman  whom 
others  would  stone.  Can  you  turn  from  me,  when  if  I  have  erred  it 
ia  through  the  divine  instinct  that  God  has  given  me?  No!  You  can 
not,  you  will  not!  If  you  could,  you  would  not  have  been  the  noble 
patient,  brave  man  whom  all  men  love.  Write  at  once  and  forgive  and 
bless  your  child.  "Marion." 

On  a  separate  slip,  pinned  to  the  letter,  was: 

"My  address  will  be  Mrs.  Gaspard  Levigne,  Breslau,  Silesia.  If  wo 
change  soon,  I  will  write  to  you.  God  bless  and  care  for  you.  M." 

Edward  gently  replaced  the  faded  letter  upon  the  table;  his  eyes 
were  wet  and  his  voice  changed  and  unnatural. 

"You  did  not  write?" 

The  general  shook  his  head. 

"You  did  not  write?"  Edward  repeated  the  question;  this  time  his 
voice  almost  agonized  in  the  weight  of  emotion.  Again  the  general 
shook  his  head,  fearing  to  trust  his  voice.  The  young  man  gazed  up 
on  him  long  and  curiously  and  was  silent. 

"I  wrote  five  years  later,"  said  Evan,  presently.  "It  was  the  best 
I  could  do.  You  cannot  judge  the  antebellum  southern  planter  by 
him  to-day.  I  was  a  king  in  those  times!  I  had  ambition.  I  looked 
to  the  future  of  my  child  and  my  family!  All  was  lost;  all  perished 
in  the  act  of  a  foolish  girl,  infatuated  with  a  music  master.  I  can 


THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN  189 

forgive  now,  but  over  me  have  rolled  waves  enough  in  thirty  years  to 
wear  away  stone.  The  war  came  on;  I  carried  that  letter  from  Ma- 
nassas  to  Appomattox  and  then  I  wrote.  I  set  inquiries  afoot  through 
consuls  abroad.  No  voice  has  ever  raised  from  the  silence.  My  child 
is  dead." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Edward,  gently;  "perhaps  not.  If  there  is  any 
genius  in  European  detective  bureaus  that  money  can  command,  we 
shall  know — we  shall  know." 

"If  she  lived  she  would  have  written.  I  cannot  get  around  that.  I 
know  my  child.  She  could  not  remain  silent  nearly  thirty  years." 

"Unless  silenced  by  circumstances  over  which  she  had  no  control." 
continued  Edward,  "and  every  side  of  this  matter  has  presented  itself 
to  me.  Your  daughter  had  one  firm,  unchanging  friend — my  uncle, 
John  Morgan.  He  has  kept  her  secret — perhaps  her  child.  Is  it  not 
possible  that- he  has  known  of  her  existence  somewhere;  that  she  has 
been  all  along  informed  of  the  condition  and  welfare  of  the  child — and 
of  you?"  Evan  did  not  reply;  he  was  intently  studying  the  young  man. 

"John  offered  to  find  her  a  year  after  she  was  gone.  He  came  and 
pleaded  for  her,  but  I  gave  him  conditions  and  he  came  no  more." 

"It  is  not  only  possible  that  she  lives,"  said  Edward,  "but  probable. 
And  it  is  certain  that  if  John  Morgan  knew  of  her  existence  and  then 
that  she  had  passed  away,  that  all  pledges  would  have  been  suspended 
in  the  presence  of  a  father's  right  to  know  that  his  child  was  dead.  I 
go  to  unravel  the  mystery.  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  will  succeed,  for  now, 
for  the  first  time  I  have  a  starting  point.  I  have  name  and  address." 
He  took  down  the  information  in  his  memorandum  book. 

Edward  prepared  to  take  his  departure,  when  Evan,  throwing  off 
his  mood,  stood  before  him  thoughtful  and  distressed. 

"Say  it,"  said  Edward,  bravely,  reading  a  change  in  the  frank  face. 

"One  moment,  and  I  shall  bid  you  farewell  and  godspeed."  He  laid 
his  hand  upon  Edward's  shoulder  and  fixed  a  penetrating  gaze  upon 
him.  "Young  man,  my  affairs  can  wait,  but  yours  cannot.  I  have  no 
questions  to  ask  of  yourself;  you  came  among  us  and  earned  our  grati 
tude.  In  time  of  trouble  I  stood  by  you.  It  was  upon  my  vouching 
personally  for  your  gentility  that  your  challenge  was  accepted.  We 
went  upon  the  field  together;  your  cause  became  mine.  Now  this;  I 
I  have  yet  a  daughter,  the  young  woman  whom  you  love — not  a  word 
now — she  is  the  pride  and  idol  of  two  old  men.  She  is  well  disposed 
toward  you,  and  you  are  on  the  point  of  going  upon  a  journey  in  her 
company  under  circumstances  that  place  her  somewhat  at  a  disad- 


190  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

vantage.  I  charge  you  that  it  is  not  konorable  to  take  advantage  of 
this  to  win  from  her  a  declaration  or  a  promise  of  any  kind.  Man 
to  man,  is  it  not  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Edward,  turning  pale,  but  meeting  his  gaze  fear 
lessly.  "It  is  so  true  that  I  may  tell  you  now  that  from  my  lips  no 
word  of  love  has  ever  passed  to  her;  that  if  I  do  speak  to  her  upon 
that  subject  it  will  be  while  she  is  here  among  her  own  people  and 
free  from  influences  that  would  bias  her  decision  unfairly."  The  hands 
of  the  two  men  met  impulsively.  A  new  light  shone  in  the  face  of 
the  soldier. 

"I  vouched  for  you,  and  if  I  erred  then  there  is  no  more  faith  to  be 
put  in  manhood,  for  if  you  be  not  a  true  man  I  never  have  seen  one. 
Go  and  do  your  best  for  Gerald — and  for  me.  I  must  reflect  upon  these 
matters — I  must  reflect !  As  yet  their  full  import  has  failed  me.  You 
must  send  me  that  manuscript." 

Deeply  impressed  and  touched,  Edward  withdrew.  The  task  waa 
finished.  It  had  been  a  delicate  and  trying  one  for  him. 

At  The  Hall  Edward  went  with  Mary  into  the  darkened  room  and 
took  the  little  mother's  hand  in  his  and  sat  beside  her  to  tell  of  th« 
proposed  journey.  He  pictured  vividly  the  scenes  to  be  enjoyed  and 
life  in  the  gay  capital,  and  all  as  a  certainty  for  her.  She  did  not 
doubt;  Dr.  Campbell  had  promised  sight;  it  would  return.  But  this 
journey,  the  expense,  they  could  not  afford  it. 

But  Mary  came  to  the  rescue  there;  her  father  had  told  her  he  was 
entirely  able  to  bear  the  expense,  and  she  was  satisfied.  This,  how 
ever,  did  not  deceive  the  mother,  who  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
family  finances.  She  knitted  away  in  discreet  silence,  biding  her  time. 

The  business  to  which  Col.  Montjoy  had  referred  was  soon  finished. 
He  formally  accepted  the  very  opportune  offer  and  wished  to  know 
when  they  should  meet  in  the  city  to  arrange  papers.  To  this  Edward 
objected,  suggesting  that  he  would  keep  an  accurate  account  of  expens 
es  incurred  and  arrange  papers  upon  his  return;  and  to  this,  the  only 
reasonable  arrangement  possible,  Col.  Montjoy  acceded. 

One  more  incident  closed  the  day.  Edward  had  nearly  reached  the 
city,  when  he  came  upon  a  buggy  by  the  roadside,  drawn  up  in  the 
shade  of  a  tree.  His  own  animal,  somewhat  jaded,  was  leisurely  walk 
ing.  Their  appoach  was  practically  noiseless,  and  he  was  alongside  the 
vehicle  before  either  of  the  two  occupants  looked  up.  He  saw  them 
both  start  violently  and  the  face  of  the  man  flush  quickly,  a  scar  up- 


THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN  191 

on  the  nose  becoming  at  once  crimson.  They  were  Royson  and  his 
cousin. 

Greatly  pained  and  embarrassed,  Edward  was  at  a  loss  how  to  act, 
but  unconsciously  he  lifted  his  hat,  with  ceremonious  politeness.  Roy- 
son  did  not  respond,  but  Annie,  with  more  presence  of  mind,  smiled 
sweetly  and  bowed.  This  surprised  him.  She  had  studiously  avoided 
meeting  him  at  The  Hall. 

The  message  of  Mary,  "Royson  is  your  enemy,"  flashed  upon  him. 
He  had  felt  intuitively  the  enmity  of  the  woman.  Why  this  clandestine 
interview  and  to  what  did  it  tend?  He  knew  in  after  days. 

Arriving  at  home  he  found  Virdow  writing  in  the  library  and  for 
bore  to  disturb  him.  Gerald  was  slumbering  in  the  glass-room,  his 
deep  breathing  betraying  the  cause.  Edward  went  to  the  little  room 
upstairs  to  secure  the  manuscript  and  prepare  it  for  sending  to  Gen. 
Evan.  Opening  the  desk  he  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  document 
was  not  where  he  placed  it.  A  search  developed  it  under  all  the  frag 
mentary  manuscript,  and  he  was  about  to  inclose  it  in  an  envelope 
when  he  noticed  that  the  pages  were  reversed.  The  last  reader  had 
not  slipped  the  pages  one  under  another,  but  had  placed  them  one  on 
another,  probably  upon  the  desk,  thus  bringing  the  last  page  on  top. 

Edward  remembered  at  that  moment  that  in  reading  the  manuscript 
he  had  carefully  replaced  each  page  in  its  proper  position  and  had 
left  the  package  on  top  of  all  others.  Who  could  have  disturbed  them? 
Not  Virdow,  and  there  was  none  else  but  Gerald! 

He  laid  aside  the  package  and  reflected.  Of  what  use  could  this 
unexplained  manuscript  be  to  Gerald?  None  that  he  could  imagine; 
and  yet  only  Gerald  could  have  moved  it.  Greatly  annoyed,  he  re 
stored  the  leaves  and  placed  them  in  an  envelope. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  the  singular  discovery  he  had  made,  and 
idly  glancing  over  the  other  fragments,  when  from  one  of  them  fell  a 
newspaper  clipping.  He  would  not  in  all  probability  have  read  it 
through,  but  the  name  "Gaspard,"  so  recently  impressed  upon  his 
mind,  caught  his  eye.  The  clipping  was  printed  in  French  and  was 
headed  "From  our  Vienna  correspondent."  Translated,  it  read  as 
follows : 

"To-day  began  the  trial  of  Leon  Gaspard  for  the  murder  of  Otto 
Schwartz  in  this  city  on  the  18th  ult.  The  case  attracts  considerable 
attention,  because  of  the  fact  that  Gaspard  has  been  for  a  week  play 
ing  first  violin  in  the  orchestra  of  the  Imperial  Theater,  where  he  has 
won  many  admirers  and  because  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the 


W2  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

case.  Schwartz  was  a  stranger  and  came  to  this  city  only  upon  the 
day  of  his  death.  It  seems  that  Gaspard,  so  it  is  charged,  some  years 
previously  had  deserted  a  sister  of  Schwartz  after  a  mock  marriage, 
but  this  he  denies.  The  men  met  in  a  cafe  and  a  scuffle  ensued,  dur 
ing  which  Schwartz  was  stabbed  to  the  heart  and  instantly  killed. 
Gaspard  claims  that  he  had  been  repeatedly  threatened  by  letter,  and 
that  Schwartz  came  to  Vienna  to  kill  him,  and  that  he  (Schwartz) 
struck  the  first  blow.  He  had  upon  his  face  a  slight  cut,  inflicted,  he 
claims,  by  a  seal  ring  worn  by  Schwartz.  Bystanders  did  not  see  the 
blow,  and  Schwartz  had  no  weapons  upon  his  body.  Gaspard  declares 
that  he  saw  a  knife  in  the  dead  man's  hand  and  that  it  was  picked  up 
and  concealed  by  a  stranger  who  accompanied  him  into  the  cafe.  Un 
less  he  can  produce  the  threatening  letters,  and  find  witnesses  to  prove 
the  knife  incident,  the  trial  will  go  hard  with  him." 

Another  clew!  And  the  husband  of  Marion  Evan  was  a  murderer! 
Who  sent  that  clipping  to  John  Morgan?  Probably  a  detective  bureau. 
Edward  folded  it  sadly,  and  gave  it  place  by  the  memoranda  he  had 
written  in  his  notebook. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?" 

The  sleeper  lay  tranquilly  forgetful  of  the  morning  hours  redolent 
of  perfumes  and  vocal  with  the  songs  of  birds.  The  sunlight  was  gone, 
a  deep-gray  cloud  having  crept  up  to  shadow  the  scene.  All  was  still 
in  the  glass-room.  Virdow  shook  his  head. 

"This,"  he  said,  "strange,  as  it  may  seem,  is  his  real  life.  Wak 
ing  brings  the  dreams.  We  will  not  disturb  him." 

Edward  would  have  returned  his  violin  to  its  case,  but  as  he  sat 
looking  upon  the  face  of  the  sleeper  and  revolving  in  mind  the  com 
plications  which  had  enslaved  him,  there  came  upon  the  roof  of  glass 
the  unheralded  fall  of  rain.  As  it  rose  and  fell  in  fine  cadences  under 
the  fitful  discharge  of  moisture  from  the  uneven  cloud  drifting  past, 
a  note  wild  but  familiar  caught  his  ear;  it  was  the  note  of  the  waterfall. 
Unconsciously  he  lifted  his  bow,  and  blending  with  that  strange  minor 
chord,  he  filled  the  room  with  low,  sweet  melody. 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"  193 

And  there  as  the  song  grew  into  rapture  from  its  sadness  under  the 
spell  of  a  new-found  hope,  under  the  memory  of  that  last  scene,  when 
the  rainbow  overhung  the  waters  and  the  face  of  the  girl  had  become 
radiant  with  the  thought  she  expressed,  Gerald  arose  from  his  couch 
and  stood  before  the  easel.  All  the  care  lines  were  gone  from  his  face. 
For  the  first  time  in  the  knowledge  of  the  two  men  he  stood  a  cool, 
rational  being.  The  strains  ran  on.  The  artist  drew,  lingering  over 
a  touch  of  beauty,  a  shade  of  expression,  a  wave  of  fine  hair  upon  the 
brow.  Then  he  stood  silent  and  gazed  upon  his  work.  It  was  finished. 
The  song  of  the  violin  trembled — died  away. 

He  did  not  for  the  moment  note  his  companions ;  he  was  looking  up 
ward  thoughtfully.  The  sun  had  burst  open  the  clouds  and  was  fill 
ing  the  outer  world  with  yellow  light,  through  the  water-seeped  air. 
Far  away,  arching  the  mellow  depths  of  a  cloud  abyss,  its  colors  re 
peated  upon  the  wet  grass  around  him,  was  a  rainbow.  Then  he  saw 
that  Virdow  and  Edward  were  watching  him.  The  spell  was  broken. 
He  smiled  a  little  and  beckoned  to  Edward. 

"Here  is  a  new  face,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  first  time)  it  has  come  to 
me.  It  is  a  face  that  rests  me."  Edward  approached  and  gazed  upon 
the  face  of  Mary !  Speechless  with  the  rush  of  feeling  that  came  over 
him,  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

To  Virdow  it  meant  nothing  except  a  fine  ideal,  but,  impressed  with 
the  manner  of  the  musician,  he  followed  to  the  great  hall.  The  girl 
of  the  picture  stood  in  the  doorway.  Before  he  had  time  to  speak,  he 
saw  the  martial  figure  of  Evan  overshadow  hers  and  heard  the  strong, 
manly  voice  asking  for  Edward. 

Edward  came  forward.  Confused  by  his  recent  experience,  and  the 
sudden  appearance  of  the  original  of  the  picture,  he  with  difficulty  man 
aged  to  welcome  his  guest  and  introduce  his  friend. 

"I  thought  best  to  come,"  said  Evan  when  Virdow,  with  easy  cour 
tesy,  was  engaging  the  attention  of  the  lady.  "I  have  passed  a  sleep 
less  night.  Where  can  we  speak  privately?"  Edward  motioned  to 
the  stairway,  but  hesitated. 

"Never  mind  Mary,"  said  the  general,  divining  his  embarrassment. 

"I  took  her  away  from  the  colonel  on  the  road;  she  and  the  professor 
will  take  care  of  themselves."  She  heard  the  remark  and  smiled,  re 
plying  gayly: 

"But  don't  stay  too  long.    I  am  afraid  I  shall  weary  your  friend." 

Virdow  made  his  courtliest  bow. 

"Impossible,"  he  said.     "I  have  been  an  untiring  admirer  of  the 


194  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

beautiful  since  childhood." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Evan.    "You  will  do!"    Virdow  bowed  again. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  have  you  answer  a  question,"  he  said,  rather 
abruptly,  gazing  earnestly  into  her  eyes.  She  was  astonished,  but  man 
aged  to  reply  assuringly.  "It  is  this:  Have  you  ever  met  Gerald 
Morgan?" 

"Never.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  him  lately,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
him." 

"Has  he  ever  seen  you?" 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of " 

"Certainly  not  face  to  face — long  enough  for  him  to  remember  your 
every  feature — your  expression?" 

"Why,  no."  The  old  man  looked  troubled  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  hall,  his  head  bent  forward.  The  girl  watched  him  nonpluss 
ed  and  with  a  little  uneasiness. 

"Pardon  me — pardon  me,"  he  said,  finally,  recalling  the  situation. 
"But  it  is  strange,  strange!" 

"May  I  inquire  what  troubles  you,  sir?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"Yes,  certainly,  yes."  He  started,  with  sudden  resolution,  and  dis 
appeared  for  a  few  moments.  When  he  returned,  he  was  holding  a 
large  sheet  of  cardboard.  "It  is  this,"  he  said.  "How  could  a  man 
who  has  never  seen  you  face  to  face  have  drawn  this  likeness?"  He 
held  Gerald's  picture  before  her.  She  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
surprise. 

"And  did  he  draw  it — did  Mr.  Gerald " 

"In  my  presence." 

"He  has  never  seen  me." 

"Yes,"  said  a  musical  voice;  "as  you  were  then,  I  have  seen  you." 
She  started  with  fright.  Gerald,  with  pallid  face  and  hair  upon  his 
shoulders,  stood  before  her.  "So  shall  I  see  you  forever."  She  drew 
nearer  to  Virdow. 

"This,  my  young  friend,  is  Mary."  It  was  all  he  could  remember. 
And  then  to  her:  "This  is  Gerald." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  musingly,  "Mary?  What  a  pretty  name!  It  suits 
you.  None  other  would."  She  had  extended  her  hand  shyly.  He 
took  it  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  It  was  the  first  time  a  girl's  hand  had 
rested  in  his.  He  did  not  release  it;  she  drew  away  at  last.  Some 
thing  in  his  voice  had  touched  her;  it  was  the  note  of  suffering,  of 
unrest,  which  a  woman  feels  first.  She  knew  something  of  his  history. 
He  had  been  Edward's  friend.  Her  father  had  uicturcd  the  scena 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"  195 

wherein  he  had  cornered  and  defied  Royson. 

"I  am  sure  we  shall  be  friends,  Mr.  Gerald.  Mr.  Morgan  is  so  fond 
of  you." 

"We  shall  be  more  than  friends,"  he  said,  gently;  "more  than  friends." 
She  misunderstood  him.  Had  he  divined  her  secret  and  did  Edward 
promise  him  that? 

"Never  less,"  she  said.  He  had  not  removed  his  eyes  from  her,  and 
now  as  she  turned  to  speak  to  Virdow,  he  came  and  stood  by  her  side, 
and  lifting  gently  one  of  her  brown  curls  gazed  wonderingly  upon  it. 
She  was  embarrassed,  but  her  good  sense  came  to  the  rescue. 

"See  the  light  upon  it  come  and  go,"  he  said.  "We  call  it  the  reflected 
light;  but  it  is  life  itself  glimmering  there.  The  eye  holds  the  same 
ray." 

"You  have  imagination,"  she  said,  smiling,  "and  it  is  fortunate.  Here 
you  must  be- lonely."  He  shook  his  head. 

"Imagination  is  often  a  curse.  The  world  generally  is  happy,  I 
think,  and  the  happiest  are  those  who  touch  life  through  the  senses 
alone  and  who  do  not  dream.  I  am  never  alone!  Would  to  God  some 
times  I  were."  A  look  of  anguish  convulsed  his  face.  She  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  wrist  as  he  stood  silently  struggling  for  self-possession. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  softly;  "I  have  pained  you."  The  look,  the 
touch,  the  tender  voice — which  was  it?  He  shuddered  and  gazed  up 
on  the  little  hand  and  then  into  her  eyes.  Mary  drew  back,  wonder 
ing;  she  read  him  aright.  Love  in  such  natures  is  not  a  growth.  It 
is  born  as  a  flash  of  light.  Yet  she  did  not  realize  the  full  significance 
of  the  discovery.  Then,  oh,  wonderful  power  of  nature,  she  turned 
upon  him  her  large,  melting  eyes  and  gave  him  one  swift  message  of 
deepest  sympathy.  Again  he  shuddered  and  the  faintest  crimson  flush 
ed  his  cheeks. 

They  went  with  Virdow  to  see  the  wing-room,  of  which  she  had 
heard  so  much,  to  look  into  the  little  cabinets,  where  he  made  his  pho 
tographs,  to  handle  his  weapons,  view  his  favorite  books  and  all  the 
curious  little  surroundings  of  his  daily  life ;  she  went  with  an  old  man 
and  a  child.  Her  girlish  interest  was  infectious;  Virdow  threw  off 
his  speculations  and  let  himself  drift  with  the  new  day,  and  Gerald 
was  as  a  smiling  boy. 

They  even  ventured  with  unconventional  daring  to  peep  into  the 
glass-room.  Standing  on  the  threshhold,  the  girl  gazed  in  with  sur 
prise  and  delight. 

"How  novel  and  how  simple!"  she  exclaimed;  "and  to  think  of  hav- 


*U9 


yi 
* 

196  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ing  the  stars  for  friends  all  night!"  He  laughed  silently  and  nodded 
his  head;  here  was  one  who  understood. 

And  then  her  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  marble  bust,  which  Ger 
ald  had  polished  and  cleared  of  its  discolorations.  She  made  them 
bring  it  and  place  it  before  her.  A  puzzled  look  overspread  her  face 
as  she  glanced  from  Gerald  to  the  marble  and  back  again. 

"Strange,  strange,"  she  said;  "sit  here,  Mr.  Gerald,  sit  here,  with 
your  head  by  this  one,  and  let  me  see."  WhfE(Tnow~lis  the  marble  it 
self,  but  controlled  by  the  new  power  that  had  enthralled,  he  obeyed; 
the  two  faces  looked  forward  upon  the  girl,  feature  for  feature.  Even 
the  pose  was  the  same. 

"It  was  well  done,"  she  said.  "I  never  saw  a  more  perfect  resem 
blance,  and  yet" — going  to  one  side — "the  profile  is  that  of  Mr.  Ed 
ward!"  The  young  man  uttered  no  sound;  he  was,  in  the  swift  pass 
ing  of  the  one  bright  hour  of  his  life,  as  the  marble  itself.  But  as  he 
remained  a  moment  under  the  spell  of  despair  that  overran  him,  Gen. 
Evan  stood  in  the  door.  Only  Mary  caught  the  words  in  his  sharp, 
half-smothered  exclamation  as  he  started  back.  They  were :  "It  is 
true!"  He  came  forward  and,  taking  up  the  marble,  looked  long  and 
tenderly  into  the  face,  and  bowing  his  head  gave  way  to  his  tears. 

One  by  one  they  withdrew — Virdow,  Mary,  Edward.  Only  Gerald 
remained,  gazing  curiously  into  the  general's  face  and  thinking.  Then 
tenderly  the  old  man  replaced  the  bust  upon  the  table,  and,  standing 
above  his  head,  and  said  with  infinite  tenderness : 

"Gerald,  you  do  not  know  me;  if  God  wills  it  you  will  know  me 
some  day!  That  marble  upon  the  table  is  the  carved  face  of  my 
daughter — Marion  Evan." 

"Then  you  are  Gen.  Evan."  The  young  man  spoke  the  words  coolly 
and  without  emotion. 

"Yes.  Nearly  thirty  years  ago  she  left  me — without  a  farewell  until 
too  late,  with  no  human  being  in  all  the  world  to  love,  none  to  care 
for  me." 

"So  Rita  told  me."    The  words  were  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

"I  did  not  curse  her;  I  disowned  her  and  sought  to  forget.  I  could 
not.  Then  I  began  to  cry  out  for  her  in  the  night— in  my  loneliness — 
do  you  know  what  that  word  means?" 

"Do  I  know?"    The  pathos  in  the  echo  was  beyond  description. 

"And  then  I  began  a  search  that  ended  only  when  ten  years  had 
buried  all  hopes.  No  tidings,  no  word  after  her  first  letter  ever  reached 
me.  She  is  dead,  I  believe;  but  recently  some  of  the  mystery  has  been 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"  197 

untangled.  I  begin  to  know,  to  believe  that  there  has  been  an  awful 
error  somewhere.  She  did  come  back.  Her  child  v/as  born  and  Rita 
cared  for  it.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I  believe  that  you  are  that  child! 
Tell  me,  do  you  remember,  have  you  any  knowledge  that  will  help  me 
to  unravel  this  tangled " 

"You  are  simply  mistaken,  general,"  said  the  young  man,  without 
moving  other  than  to  fold  his  arms  and  sink  back  into  his  chair.  "I  am 
not  the  son  of  Marion  Evan."  Speechless  for  a  moment,  the  general 
gazed  upon  his  companion. 

"I  thought  I  was,"  continued  Gerald;  "I  hoped  I  was.  My  Gcd! 
My  God !  I  tried  to  be !  I  have  exhausted  almost  life  itself  to  make 
the  truth  a  lie,  and  the  lie  a  truth !  I  have  struggled  with  this  secret 
here  for  twenty  years  or  more;  I  have  studied  every  phase  of  life;  I 
well-nigh  broke  Rita's  heart.  Poor  honest  Rita! 

"She  told  me  what  they  claimed— she  was  too  honest  to  conceal  that 
— and  what  she  believed;  she  was  too  human  to  conceal  that;  and  then 
left  me  to  judge.  The  woman  they  would  have  me  own  as  my  mother 
left  me,  a  lonely  babe,  to  the  care  of  strangers;  to  grow  up  ill-taught, 
unguided,  frail  and  haunted  with  a  sickening  fear.  She  has  left  me 
twenty-seven  years.  Rita  stayed.  If  I  were  sick,  Rita  was  by  me.  If 
I  was  crazed,  Rita  was  there  to  calm.  Sleepless  by  night,  sleepless  by 
day,  she  loved  and  comforted  and  blessed  me."  He  had  risen  in  his 
growing  excitement.  "I  ask  you,  General,  who  have  known  life  better 
than  I,  which  of  the  two  was  my  mother?  Let  me  answer;  you  will 
not.  The  woman  of  thirty  years  ago  is  nothing  to  me;  she  was  once. 
That  has  passed.  When  Rita  lay  dead  in  her  coffin  I  kissed  her  lips 
at  last  and  called  her  mother.  I  would  have  killed  myself  afterward — 
life  seemed  useless — but  not  so  now.  It  may  be  a  terrible  thing  to  le 
Rita's  son;  I  suppose  it  is,  but  as  before  God,  I  thank  Him  that  I  have 
come  to  believe  that  there  are  no  ties  of  blood  between  me  and  the 
woman  who  was  false  to  both  father  and  child,  and  in  all  probability 
deserted  her  husband." 

Gen.  Evan  turned  abruptly  and  rushed  from  the  room.  Edward  saw 
his  face  as  he  passed  out  through  the  hall  and  did  not  speak.  With 
courtly  dignity  he  took  Mary  to  the  buggy  and  stood  with  bowed  head 
until  they  were  gone.  He  then  returned  to  the  glass-room.  Gerald 
stood  among  the  ruins  of  a  drawing  and  the  fragments  of  the  marble 
bust  lay  on  the  floor.  One  glance  at  this  scene  and  the  blazing  eyes 
of  the  man  was  sufficient.  Evan  had  failed. 

"Tell  them,"  exclaimed  Gerald,  "that  even  the  son  of  a  slave  is  dii- 


I 


198  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

honored,  when  they  seek  to  link  him  to  a  woman  who  abandons  her 
child." 

"What  is  it,"  asked  Virdow,  in  a  whisper,  coming  to  Edward's  side. 
Edward  shook  his  head  and  drew  him  from  the  room. 

"He  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
UNDER  THE  SPELL. 

The  autumn  days  ran  out  and  in  the  depth  of  the  southern  woods, 
here  and  there,  the  black  gums  and  sweet  gums  began  to  flame.  And 
with  them  came  the  day  when  the  bandages  were  removed  from  the 
eyes  of  the  gentle  woman  at  the  hall.  Tha  family  gathered  about  the 
little  figure  in  the  sitting-room.  Edward  Morgan  with  them,  and  Col. 
Montjoy  lowered  the  bandage.  The  room  had  been  darkened  and  all 
light  except  what  came  through  one  spen  shutter  had  been  excluded. 
There  was  a  moment  of  painful  silence;  Mary  tightly  clasping  her 
mother's  hands.  The  invalid  turned  her  face  to  the  right  and  left,  and 
then  to  the  window. 

"Light,"  she  said  gently.    "I  see." 

"Thank  God!"  The  words  burst  from  the  old  man's  lips  and  his 
arms  went  around  mother  and  daughter  at  once.  For  quicker  than 
he  the  girl  had  glided  in  between  them  and  was  clasping  the  beloved 
form.  Edward  said  a  few  words  of  congratulation  and  passed  out 
side.  The  scene  was  sacred. 

Then  came  days  of  practice.  The  eyes  so  long  darkened  must  be 
accustomed  to  the  light  and  not  strained.  Upon  that  weak  vision,  little 
by  little,  came  back  the  world,  the  trees  and  flowers,  the  faces  of  hus 
band  and  daughter  and  friends.  It  was  a  joyful  season  at  the  hall. 

A  little  sadder,  a  little  sterner  than  usual,  but  with  his  fine  face 
flushed  in  sympathetic  feeling,  the  old  general  came  to  add  his  con 
gratulations.  Now  nothing  remained  but  to  prepare  for  Paris,  and 
all  was  bustle. 

A  few  more  nights  and  then — departure! 

Mary  was  at  the  piano,  playing  the  simple  music  of  the  south  and 
singing  the  songs  which  were  a  part  of  the  air  she  had  breathed  all 
her  life— the  folk  songs  of  the  blacks. 


UNDER  THE  SPELL  199 

Col.  Montjoy  had  the  Duchess  on  his  lap  to  hear  "the  little  boy  in 
his  watch  crack  hickory  nuts"  and  the  monotonous  cracking  of  the 
nuts  mingling  with  the  melody  of  the  musician  had  put  both  asleep. 

Mary  and  Edward  went  to  the  veranda,  and  to  them  across  the  field 
came  the  measured  tread  of  feet,  the  call  of  the  fiddler,  and  now  and 
then  strains  of  music,  such  as  the  negro  prefers. 

Edward  proposed  an  excursion  to  witness  the  dance,  and  the  girl  as 
sented  gladly.  She  was  herself  a  born  dancer;  one  whose  feet  were 
set  to  rhythm  in  infancy. 

They  reached  the  long  house,  a  spacious  one-room  edifice,  with  low 
rafters  but  a  broad  expanse  of  floor,  and  stood  at  the  door.  Couple 
after  couple  passed  by  in  the  grand  promenade,  the  variety  and  incon 
gruities  of  colors  amusing  Edward  greatly.  Every  girl  in  passing 
called  repeatedly  to  "missy,"  the  name  by  which  Mary  was  known  on 
the  plantation,  and  their  dusky  escorts  bowed  awkwardly  and  smiled. 

Suddenly  the  lines  separated  and  a  couple  began  to  dance.  Ed 
ward,  who  had  seen  the  dancers  of  most  nations,  was  delighted  with 
the  abandon  of  these.  The  man  pursued  the  girl  through  the  ranks, 
she  eluding  him  with  ease,  as  he  was  purposely  obstructed  by  every 
one.  His  object  was  to  keep  as  near  her  as  possible  for  the  final  scene. 
At  last  she  reappeared  in  the  open  space  and  hesitating  a  mment, 
her  dusky  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  darted  through  the  doorway.  There 
was  a  shout  as  her  escort  followed.  If  he  could  catch  her  before  she 
reentered  at  the  opposite  door  she  paid  the  penalty.  Before  Edward 
realized  the  situation  the  girl  was  behind  him.  He  stepped  the  wrong 
way,  there  was  a  collision,  and  ere  she  could  recover,  her  pursuer  had 
her  in  his  arms.  There  was  a  moment's  struggle;  his  distinct  smack 
proved  his  success,  and  if  it  had  not,  the  resounding  slap  from  the 
broad  hand  of  his  captive  would  have  betrayed  matters. 

On  went  the  dance.  Mary  stood  patting  time  to  the  music  of  the 
violin  in  the  hands  of  old  Morris,  the  presiding  genius  of  the  festival, 
who  bent  and  genuflected  to  suit  the  requirements  of  his  task.  As  the 
revel  grew  wilder,  as  it  always  does  under  the  stimulus  of  a  specta 
tor's  presence,  she  motioned  to  Edward,  and  entering,  stood  by  the 
player. 

"In  all  your  skill,"  she  said,  "you  cannot  equal  this."  For  reply  the 
young  man,  taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the  rout,  reached  over  and 
took  the  well-worn  instrument  from  the  hands  of  the  old  man.  There 
was  a  buzz  of  interest.  Catching  the  spirit  of  the  scene  he  drew  the 
bow  and  gave  them  the  wild  dance  music  of  the  Hungarians.  They 


200  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

responded  enthusiastically  and  the  player  did  not  fail. 

Then,  when  the  tumult  had  reached  its  climax,  there  was  a  crash, 
and  with  bow  in  air  Edward,  flushed  and  excited,  stood  gazing  upon 
the  crowd.  Then  forty  voices  shouted: 

"Missy!  Missy!"  On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  they  cheered  and 
clapped  their  hands. 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Mary.  She  looked  into  the  face  of  the  player; 
his  eyes  challenged  hers  and  she  responded,  instinctively  the  dusky 
figures  shrank  to  the  wall  and  alone,  undaunted,  the  slender  girl 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  deserted  floor.  Edward  played  the  gypsy 
dance,  increasing  the  time  until  it  was  a  passionate  melody,  and  Mary 
began.  Her  lithe  form  swayed  and  bent  and  glided  in  perfect  response 
to  the  player,  the  little  feet  twinkling  almost  unseen  upon  the  sandy 
boards.  Such  grace,  such  allurements,  he  had  never  before  dreamed 
of.  And  finally,  breathless,  she  stood  one  moment,  her  hand  uplifted, 
the  triumphant  interpreter  of  his  melody.  With  mischievous  smile, 
she  sprang  from  the  door,  her  face  turned  backward  for  one  instant. 

Releasing  the  instrument,  Edward  followed  in  perfect  forgetfulness 
of  self  and  situation.  But  when,  puzzled,  he  appeared  alone  at  the 
opposite  door,  he  heard  her  laugh  in  the  distance — and  memory  over 
whelmed  him  with  her  tide. 

He  was  pale  and  startled  and  the  company  was  laughing.  He  cast 
a  handful  of  money  among  them  and  in  the  confusion  that  followed 
made  his  escape.  Mary  was  waiting  demurely  in  the  path. 

"It  was  perfect,"  he  said,  breaking  the  awkward  silence. 

"Any  one  could  dance  to  that  music,"  was  her  reply. 

Silently  they  began  their  return.  An  old  woman  sat  in  her  cabin 
door,  a  fire  of  chunks  making  a  red  spot  in  the  gloom  behind. 

"We  go  to-morrow,  Aunt  Sylla.  Is  it  for  good  or  ill?"  The  woman 
was  old  and  wrinkled.  She  was  the  focus  of  all  local  superstiton;  one 
of  the  ante-bellum  voodoos.  If  her  pewter  spoons  had  been  gold,  her 
few  beads  diamonds,  she  might  have  left  the  doors  unbarred  without 
danger. 

Mary  had  paused  and  asked  the  question  to  draw  out  the  odd  char 
acter  for  her  friend. 

"In  the  woods  the  clocks  of  heaven  strike  11!  Jeffers,  who  was 
never  born,  speaks  out,"  was  the  strange  reply. 

"In  the  woods,"  said  Mary,  thoughtfully,  "the  dew  drips  tinkling 
froan  the  leaves;  Jeffers,  the  redbird,  was  never  born,  but  hatched. 
What  does  he  say,  Aunt  Sylla?"  The  woman  was  trying  to  light  her 


UNDER  THE  SPELL  201 

pipe.  Absence  of  tobacco  was  the  main  cause  of  her  failure.  Edward 
crushed  a  cigar  and  handed  it  to  her.  When  she  had  lighted  it  she 
lifted  the  blazing  chunk  and  her  faded  eyes  looked  steadily  upon  the 
young  man. 

"He  says  the  gentleman  will  come  some  day  and  bring  much  to 
bacco."  The  girl  laughed,  but  the  darkness  hid  her  blushes. 

"In  the  meantime,"  said  Edward  cheerfully,  placing  a  silver  coin 
in  her  hand,  "you  can  tell  your  friend  Jeffers  that  you  are  supplied." 

The  negro's  prophecy  is  usually  based  on  shrewd  guesses.  Sylla 
grasped  the  coin  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child  receiving  a  new  doll. 
She  pointed  her  finger  at  him  and  looked  to  the  girl.  Mary  laughed. 

"Keep  still  a  moment,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said,  "I  must  rob  you." 
She  took  a  strand  or  two  of  his  hair  between  her  little  fingers  and 
plucked  them  out.  Edward  would  not  have  flinched  had  there  been 
fifty.  "Now  something  you  have  worn — what  can  it  be?  Oh,  a  button." 
She  took  his  penknife  and  cut  from  his  coat  sleeve  one  of  its  buttons. 
"There,  Aunt  Sylla,  if  you  are  not  successful  with  them  I  shall  never 
forgive  you."  The  old  woman  took  the  hair  and  the  button  and  re 
lapsed  into  silent  smoking. 

"I  am  a  little  curious  to  know  what  she  is  going  to  do  with  those 
things,"  said  Edward.  Mary  looked  at  him  shyly. 

"She  is  going  to  protect  you,"  she  said.  "She  will  mix  a  little  ground 
glass  and  a  drop  of  chicken  blood  with  them,  and  sew  all  in  a  tiny  bag. 
No  negro  alive  or  dead  would  touch  you  then  for  the  universe,  and 
should  you  touch  one  of  them  with  that  charm  it  would  give  them  cat 
alepsy.  You  will  get  it  to-morrow." 

"She  is  arming  me  with  a  terrible  power  at  small  cost,"  he  replied, 
dryly. 

"Old  Sylla  is  a  prophetess,"  said  the  girl,  "as  well  as  a  voodoo,  and 
there  is  with  us  a  tradition  that  death  in  the  family  will  follow  her 
every  visit  to  the  house.  It  is  strange,  but  within  our  memory  it  has 
proved  true.  My  infant  brother,  my  only  sister,  mamma's  brother, 
papa's  sister,  an  invalid  northern  cousin  spending  the  winter  here — 
all  their  deaths  were  preceded  by  the  appearance  of  old  Sylla  " 

"And  is  her  success  in  prophecy  as  marked?" 

"Yes,  so  far  as  I  know."  She  hesitated  a  moment.  "Her  prediction 
as  to  myself  has  not  had  time  to  mature." 

"And  what  was  the  prediction?" 

•  "That  some  day  a  stranger  would  carry  me  into  a  strange  land," 
she  said,  smiling;  "and — break  my  heart." 


202  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

They  had  reached  the  gate;  except  where  the  one  light  burned  in 
the  sitting-room  all  was  darkness  and  silence.  Edward  said  gently, 
as  he  stood  holding  open  the  gate: 

"I  am  a  stranger  and  shortly  I  will  take  you  into  a  strange  land, 
but  may  God  forget  me  if  I  break  your  heart."  She  did  not  reply,  but 
with  face  averted  passed  in.  The  household  was  asleep.  She  carried 
the  lamp  to  his  door  and  opened  it.  He  took  it  and  then  her  hand. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes;  then,  gravely  lifting 
the  little  hand,  he  kissed  it. 

"May  God  forget  me,"  he  said  again,  "if  I  break  your  heart."  He 
held  the  door  open  until  she  had  passed  down  the  stairs,  her  flushed 
face  never  lifted  again  to  his. 

And  then  with  the  shutting  of  the  door  came  darkness.  But  in  the 
gloom  a  white  figure  came  from  the  front  door- way,  stood  listening  at 
the  stairs  and  then  as  noiseless  as  a  sunbeam  glided  down  into  the 
hall  below. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

BARKSDALE'S   WARNING. 

Edward  was  awakened  by  a  cowhorn  blown  just  before  the  peep  of 
day  and  the  frantic  baying  of  the  hounds  that  Charlie  Possum  was 
bringing  to  the  house.  As  he  dressed  and  came  forth  the  echos  of 
horses'  feet  were  heard  in  the  distance  upon  the  public  roads  and  the 
cry  of  other  hounds,  and  as  the  gray  dawn  lighted  the  east  the  outer 
yard  presented  an  animated  scene.  About  a  dozen  riders  were  dis 
mounting  or  dismounted  were  trying  to  force  a  place  between  the  mul 
titude  of  dogs,  great  and  small,  that  were  settling  old  and  new  disputes 
rough  and  tumble,  tooth  and  toe  nail. 

There  was  little  of  the  holiday  attire  that  is  usually  seen  at  club 

meets;  the  riders  wore  rough  clothing  and  caps  and  their  small  slender 

horses  were  accoutered  with  saddles  and  bridles  that  had  been  distinctly 

"worn."     But  about  all  was  a  business  air  and  promise  of  genuine 

sport.    Many  of  the  dogs  were  of  the  old  "July"  stock,  descendants  of 

I  a  famous  Maryland  dog  of  40  years  before,  whose  progeny  scattered 

|   throughout  Georgia  constitute  canine  aristocracy  wherever  found — p. 

\  slender-flanked,  fullchested  animal,  with  markings  of  black  and  tan. 


BARKSDALE'S  WARNING  203 

Among  them  were  their  English  rivals  of  larger  form  and  marked 
with  blotches  of  red  and  white. 

The  servants  were  busy  getting  light  refreshments  for  the  riders. 
Mary  was  the  superintendent  of  this,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was 
presiding  over  a  ceremony  dear  to  the  old  south  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 
Into  each  generous  cut  glass  goblet  that  lined  her  little  side  table 
she  poured  a  few  spoonsful  of  sweetened  water,  packing  them  with 
crushed  ice.  Down  through  the  little  arctic  heaps,  a  wineglassful  of 
each,  she  poured  a  ruby  liquor  grown  old  in  the  deep  cellar,  and  planted 
above  the  radiated  pyramids  little  forests  of  mint.  Nothing  but  silver 
is  worthy  to  hold  such  works  of  art,  and  so  getting  out  an  old,  well- 
worn  Montjoy  silver,  its  legend  and  crest  almost  faded  into  the  gen 
eral  smoothness  of  their  background,  she  placed  them  there  and  began 
her  ministry  in  the  long  dining  room.  She  made  a  pretty  picture  as 
she  passed  among  the  men,  her  short,  narrowskirted  riding  dress  and 
little  felt  hat  setting  off  her  lithe,  active  form  perfectly.  The  ceremony 
was  simple  and  short.  Everybody  was  eager  to  be  off. 

Just  as  they  mounted  and  rode  out,  Mary  appeared  from  somewhere, 
(mounted  upon  a  half  broken  colt,  that  betrayed  a  tendency  to  curve 
herself  into  a  half-moon,  and  gallop  broadside  against  fences  and  trees 
that  were  inconveniently  located. 

Edward  viewed  the  mount  with  alarm.  Though  a  fairly  good  rider, 
he  was  not  up  to  cross  country  runs  and  he  questioned  his  ability  to 
be  of  much  assistance  should  the  half  broken  animal  bolt,  with  its 
fair  burden.  He  proposed  an  exchange,  but  Mary  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"Lorna  is  all  right"  she  said,  "but  you  could  never  get  her  out  of 
the  yard.  She  will  steady  up  after  awhile,  and  the  best  of  horses  can't 
beat  her  in  getting  round  corners  and  over  fences." 

"Daughter",  said  the  colonel,  checking  his  horse  as  he  prepared  to 
follow,  "are  you  sure  of  Lorna?" 

"Perfectly.  She  is  going  to  do  her  worst  for  a  while  and  then  her 
best.  Steady  girl;  don't  disgrace  yourself  before  company."  Lorna 
danced  and  tossed  her  head  and  chewed  upon  her  bit  with  impatience. 
At  that  moment  Barksdale  rode  into  the  yard,  mounted  upon  a  tall 
throughbred,  his  equipments  perfect,  dress  elegant,  seat  easy  and  car 
riage  erect.  He  seemed  to  Edward  a  perfect  horseman.  He  gravely 
saluted  them  both. 

"I  see  that  I  am  in  the  nick  of  time,  Miss  Mary;  I  was  afraid  it 
was  late." 

"It  is  late,"  said  the  girl,  "but  this  time  it  is  a  cat  and  doesn't  mat- 


204  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ter.  The  scent  will  lie  long  after  sun-up.  "They  were  following  then 
and  the  conversation  was  difficult.  Already  the  dark  line  of  men  was 
disappearing  down  the  line  in  its  yet  unbroken  shadow.  A  mile  away 
the  party  turned  into  the  low  grounds  and  here  the  general  met  them 
riding  his  great  roan  and,  as  always  when  mounted,  having  the  ap 
pearance  of  an  officer  on  parade.  He  came  up  to  the  three  figures  in 
the  rear  and  saluted  them  cheerily.  His  old  spirits  seemed  to  have 
returned. 

They  entered  into  a  broad  valley  that  had  been  fallow  for  several 
years.  Along  the  little  stream  that  threaded  its  way  down  the  mid 
dle  with  zigzag  indecision,  grew  the  southern  cane  from  6  to  15  feet 
high;  the  mass  a  hundred  yards  broad  in  places,  and  at  others  nar 
rowing  down  to  fords.  This  cane  growing  erect  is  impenetrable  for 
horses.  The  rest  of  the  valley,  half  a  mile  wide,  was  grown  up  in 
sage,  broomstraw,  little  pines  and  briars. 

The  general  shape  of  the  ground  was  that  of  the  letter  Y,  the  stem 
being  the  creek,  and  the  arms  its  two  feeders  leading  in  from  the 
hills.  To  start  at  the  lower  end  of  the  letter,  travel  up  and  out  one 
arm  to  its  end,  and  return,  to  the  starting  point,  meant  an  eight  mile 
ride,  if  the  cat  kept  to  the  cane  as  was  likely.  It  was  a  mile  across 
from  arm  to  arm,  without  cover  except  about  an  acre  of  sparse,  low 
cane  half  way  between.  When  Mary  came  up  to  the  leading  riders, 
with  her  escort,  they  were  discussing  a  fact  that  all  seemd  to  re 
gard  as  significant.  One  of  the  old  dogs,  "Leader,"  had  uttered  a 
sharp,  quick  yelp.  All  other  dogs  were  focusing  toward  her;  their 
dark  figures  visible  here  and  there  as  they  threaded  the  tangled  way. 
Suddenly  an  angry,  excited  baying  in  shrill  falsetto  was  heard,  and 
Evan  shouted:  "That's  my  puppy  Carlo!  Where  are  your  English 
dogs?" 

"Wait",  said  one  of  the  party.  "The  English  dogs  will  be  in  at 
start  and  finish."  Suddenly  "Leader"  opened  fullmouthed,  a  second 
ahead  of  her  puppy,  and  the  next  instant,  pandemonium  broke  loose. 
Forty-seven  dogs  were  racing  in  full  cry  up  the  stream.  A  dozen 
excited  men  were  following,  with  as  much  noise  and  skill  as  they 
could  command. 

"A  cat,  by  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  neighbors.  "I  saw  him!" 

Barksdale  led  the  way  for  the  little  group  behind.  Edward  could 
have  closed  in,  but  his  anxiety  for  the  girl  was  now  developed  into 
genuine  fear.  The  tumult  was  the  signal  for  Lorna  to  begin  a  series 
of  equine  calisthenics,  more  distinguished  for  violence  than  beauty. 


BARKSDALE'S  WARNING  205 

For  she  planted  her  heels  in  the  face  of  nature  repeatedly,  seemingly 
in  an  impartial  determination  to  destroy  all  the  cardinal  points  of 
the  compass.  This  exercise  she  varied  with  agile  leaps  upward,  and 
bunching  of  feet  as  she  came  down. 

Edward  was  about  to  dismount  to  take  hold  of  her  when  Lorna, 
probably  discerning  that  it  was  unnecessary  to  get  rid  of  her  rider  be 
fore  joining  the  rout,  went  past  him  like  a  leaf  upon  a  hurricane. 
He  planted  spurs  in  his  horse's  side  and  followed  with  equal  speed, 
but  she  was  now  far  ahead.  He  saw  her  skim  past  Barksdale,  and 
that  gentleman  with  but  a  slight  motion  of  his  knees  increased  his 
speed.  And  then  Lorna  and  the  thoroughbred  went  straight  into 
the  wall  of  cane,  but  instead  of  a  headlong  plunge  and  a  mixture  of 
human  being  and  struggling  animal  floundering  in  the  break,  he 
simply  saw — nothing.  The  pair  went  out  of  sight  like  an  awkwardly 
snuffed  candle. 

He,  had  no  time  to  wonder;  the  next  instant  he  was  going  through 
a  hog  path  in  the  cane,  the  tall  stems  rattling  madly  against  his  knees, 
his  eyes  dazed  by  /the  rushing  past  of  so  many  near  and  separate 
points  of  vision.  Then  he  rose  in  air.  There  was  a  flash  of  water 
underneath  and  down  he  came  into  the  path.  The  open  world  burst 
upon  him  again  like  a  beautiful  picture.  He  only  saw  the  flying  figure 
of  the  girl  upon  a  ijtnad  colt.  Was  she  trying  in  vain  to  hold  it? 
Would  she  lose  her  head?  Would  her  nerve  forsake  her?  Heavens!! 
She  is  plying  her  whip  with  might  and  main,  and  the  man  on  the 
thoroughbred  at  her  heels  looks  back  over  his  shoulder  into  Edward's 
white  face  and  smiles.  Then  they  disappear  into  the  green  wall 
again  and  again  the  world  is  reborn  on  the  other  side. 

The  pace  tells.  One  by  one  Edward  passes  the  riders.  The  old 
general  comes  up  at  last.  As  Mary  goes  by,  he  gives  what  Edward 
supposes  to  be  the  old  rebel  yell  of  history  and  then  they  are  out  of 
the  end  of  one  arm  of  the  Y  and  heading  for  the  clump  of  cane. 

There  has  been  little  dodging.  With  so  many  dogs  plunging  up 
both  sides  of  the  creek,  and  picking  up  its  trail  as  he  crossed  and  re- 
crossed,  the  cat  had  finally  to  adopt  a  straightaway  program  as  the 
cover  would  permit.  If  it  dodged  once  in  this  little  bit  of  small  cane 
it  was  lost.  It  did  not  dodge.  It  went,  straight  into  the  end  of  the 
other  arm  of  the  Y  and  to  the  astonishment  of  all  the  hunters  ap 
parently  went  out  again  and  across  a  sedge  field  toward  the  hills. 

It  was  then  a  straight  race  of  half  a  mile  and  the  dogs  won.  They 
snarled  and  pulled  and  fought  around  the  carcass,  whert  Lorna  went 


206  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

directly  over  them  and  was  "sawed  up"  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  50 
yards  further.  One  of  the  hunters  jumped  down  and  plucked  the 
carcass  from  the  dogs  and  held  it  up.  It  was  a  gray  fox.  The  dogs 
had  run  over  him  in  the  little  cane  and  indulged  in  a  view  chase.  The 
cat  was  elsewhere ! 

Exclamations  of  disgust  were  heard  on  all  sides  and  Evan  looked 
anxiously  among  the  gathering  dogs. 

"Where  is  Carlo?''  he  asked  of  several.  "Has  anybody  seen  Carlo?" 
Nobody  had,  apparently;  but  at  that  moment  in  the  distance,  down 
the  arm  of  the  Y  which  Reynard  had  crossed,  they  heard  a  sharp, 
puppyish  cry,  interspersed  with  the  fuller  voicings  of  an  old  dog. 

"There  is  Carlo!"  shouted  the  old  gentleman  in  a  stentorian,  voice. 
"And  Leader,"  interpolated  Montjoy 

"Come  on  with  your  English  dogs!  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  and  Evan  was 
gone.  But  Lorna  was  done  for  the  day.  She  distinctly  refused  to 
become  enthused  any  more.  She  had  carried  her  rider  first  in  at  the 
death  in  one  race  and  the  bush  had  been  handed  to  Mary.  Lorna  re 
sponded  to  the  efforts  to  force  her,  by  indulging  in  her  absurd  half- 
moon  antics.  Barksdale  and  Edward  turned  back. 

"It  will  come  around  on  the  same  circuit,"  said  Barksdale,  speaking 
of  the  cat;  "let  us  ride  out  into  the  open  space  and  see  it."  They 
took  position  and  listened.  Two  miles  away,  about  at  the  fork  of  the 
Y,  they  could  hear  the  echo  of  the  tumult.  If  the  cat  went  down  the 
main  stem  the  day  was  probably  spoiled;  if  it  came  back  up  the  other 
branch  as  before,  they  were  in  good  position. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  rout  and  then  the  dogs  swarmed  all 
over  the  lone  acre  of  cane.  The  animal  had  dodged  back  from  the 
horsemen  standing  there  and  was  now  surrounded. 

The  dogs  ran  here  and  there  trotting  along  outside  the  cane  care 
less  and  fagged  suddenly  became  animated  again  and  sprang  upon 
a  crouching  form,  whose  eyeballs  could  even  from  a  distance,  be  seen 
to  roll  and  glare  frightfully.  There  was  one  motion,  the  yelping  puppy 
went  heels  over  head  with  a  wound  from  neck  to  hip,  and  Carlo  had 
learned  to  respect  the  wild  cat.  But  the  next  instant  a  dozen  dogs 
were  rolling  in  horrid  combat  with  the  animal  and  then  a  score  were 
pulling  at  the  gray  and  tan  form  that  offered  no  more  resistance. 

"Thirty-five  pounds,"  said  an  expert,  holding  up  the  dead  cat.  A 
front  foot  was  cut  off  and  passed  up  for  examination.  It  was  as  large 
M  a  man's  fist  and  the  claws  were  like  the  talons  of  a  condor. 

The  general  was  down,  examining  the  wound  of  poor  Carlo,  and, 


BARKSDALE'S  WARNING  207 

all  rivalry  cast  aside,  the  experienced  hunters  closed  in  to  help  him. 
It  was  not  a  question  now  of  Maryland  or  England;  a  puppy  that 
would  hold  a  trail  when  abandonded  by  a  pack  of  old  dogs  whom  it 
was  accustomed  to  follow  and  rely  upon  its  own  judgment  as  to 
wherein  lay  its  duty,  and  first  of  all,  after  a  16  mile  run,  plants  its 
teeth  in  the  quarry — was  now  more  than  a  puppy.  Ask  any  old  fox 
hunter  and  he  will  prophesy  that  from  the  day  of  the  killing  of  the 
cat,  whenever  Carlo  opened  in  a  hunt,  no  matter  how  much  the  other 
dogs  might  be  interested,  they  would  suspend  judgment  and  and  flock 
to  him.  That  day  made  Carlo  a  Napoleon  among  canines. 

Edward  was  an  interested  observer  of  the  gentle  surgery  being 
practiced  upon  the  dog.  At  length  he  ventured  to  ask  a  question. 
"What  is  his  name,  General?" 

"Carlo." 

"And  I  presume  he  is  not  what  you  call  an  English  dog?" 

The  general  looked  at  him  fiercely;  then  his  features  relaxed.  "Go 
away,  Edward,  go  away — and  give  the  dog  a  chance." 

Barksdale  had  ridden  to  one  side  with  Mary  and  was  gravely  study 
ing  the  scene.  Presently  he  said  abruptly: 

"When  is  it  you  leave  for  Europe?" 

"Tomorrow." 

"There  is  a  matter  pending,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  renders  it  pecul 
iarly  unfortunate."  She  regarded  him  with  surprise.  "What  I  say 
is  for  you  alone.  I  know  Mr.  Morgan  has  been  out  here  for  several 
days  and  has  probably  not  been  made  aware  of  what  is  talked  in 
town."  Briefly  he  acquainted  her  with  the  rumors  afloat  and  seeing 
her  deep  concern  and  distress  added:  "The  affair  is  trivial  with  Mr. 
Morgan;  he  can  easily  silence  the  talk,  but  in  his  absence,  if  skill 
fully  managed,  it  can  affect  his  reputation  seriously." 

"Skillfully  managed?" 

"Do  you   suppose  that  Mr.  Morgan  is  without  enemies?" 

"Who  could  be  his  enemy?"  She  asked  quickly,  then  flushed  and 
was  silent. 

"I  will  not  risk  an  injustice  to  innocent  people,"  he  said  slowly, 
but  he  has  enemies,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  whether  to  acquaint 
him  with  what  is  going  on  or  not.  I  do  not  even  advise  you.  But  I 
came  on  this  hunt  to  acquaint  you  with  the  situation.  If  the  man 
whom  I  suspect  is  guilty  in  this  matter  he  will  not  leave  a  stone  un 
turned  to  destroy  his  rival.  It  is  nearer  home  from  this  point  than 
from  the  hall  and  I  have  business  waiting.  Goodbye." 


208  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

He  saluted  Morgan,  who  was  approaching,  and  went  rapidly  away. 
Mary  rode  home  in  silence,  returning  only  monosyllables  to  her  escort. 
But  when  she  spoke  of  being  doubtful  of  their  ability  to  get  ready  by 
morning  and  Edward  proposed  to  cancel  his  order  for  berths,  she 
hesitated.  After  all  the  affair  was  ridiculus.  She  let  it  pass  from 
her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XL. 
THE  HIDDEN  HAND. 

It  matters  little  what  kind  of  seed  is  planted,  it  finds  its  proper 
elements  in  the  soil.  So  with  rumors.  There  ia  never  a  rumor  so 
wild,  but  that  finds  a  place  for  its  roots. 

It  soon  reached  the  coroner,  that  zealous  officer  whose  compensation 
is  based  upon  fees,  that  his  exchequer  had  been  defrauded  by  the 
improper  burial  of  a  woman  out  at  Hexhurst.  She 'had  dropped  dead, 
and  there  had  not  been  a  witness.  An  inquest  was  proper;  was  nec 
essary.  He  began  an  investigation.  And  then  appeared  in  the  bre 
vity  columns  of  one  of  the  papers  the  incipient  scandal : 

"It  is  whispered  that  suspicions  of  foul  play  are  entertained  in 
connection  with  Rita,  the  housekeeper  of  the  late  John  Morgan  at 
Hexhurst.  The  coroner  will  investigate." 

And  the  next  day  the  following: 

"Our  vigilant  coroner  has  made  inquiry  into  the  death  and  burial 
of  Rita  Morgan,  and  feels  that  the  circumstances  demand  a  disinter- 
ment  and  examination  of  the  body.  So  far  the  rumors  of  foul  play 
come  from  negroes  only.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Edward  Morgan  found 
the  woman  lying  in  his  yard,  and  that  she  died  almost  immediately 
after  the  discovery-  It  was  upon  the  night  but  one  preceding  his 
meeting  with  Mr.  Royson  on  the  field  of  honor,  and  during  his  absence 
next  day  the  body  was  hurriedly  interred.  There  is  little  doubt  that 
the  woman  came  to  her  death  from  natural  causes,  but  it  is  known  that 
ahe  had  few  if  any  friends  among  her  race,  and  other  circumstances 
attending  her  demise  are  such  that  the  body  will  be  disinterred  and 
examined)  for  evidence." 

Even  this  did  not  especially  interest  the  public.     But  when  next 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND  209 

day  the  morning  papers  came  out  with  triple  headlines  the  first  of 
which  was  "Murdered,"  followed  by  a  succinct  account  of  the  dis- 
intermenti  of  Rita  Morgan,  as  she  was  called,  with  the  discovery  of  a 
cut  on  the  left  temple  and  a  wound  in  the  back  of  the  head  that  had 
crushed  in  the  skull,  the  public  was  startled.  No  charge  was  made 
against  Edward  Morgan,  no  connection  hinted  at,  but  it  was  stated  in 
the  history  of  the  woman  that  she  was  the  individual  referred  to  in 
Royson's  famous  letter  on  which  the  duel  had  been  fought,  and  that 
she  died  suddenly  upon  the  day  it  was  published.  The  paper  said  that 
it  was  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Morgan  had  left  several  days  before  for 
Paris,  and  had  sailed  that  morning  from  New  York. 

Then  the  public  tongue  began  $o  wag  and  the  public  mind  to  wait 
impatiently  for  the  inquest. 

The  inquest  was  held  in  due  form.  The  surgeons  designated  to  ex 
amine  the  supposed  wounds  reported  them  genuine,  the  cut  in  the 
temple  trifling,  the  blow  in  the  back  of  the  head  sufficient  to  have 
caused  death. 

A  violent  discussion  ensued  when  the  jury  came  to  make  up  its 
verdict,  but  the  conservative  members  carried  the  day.  A  verdict  of 
"death  by  a  blow  upon  the  head  by  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  a  person 
or  persons  unknown  to  the  jury"  was  rendered;  the  body  reinterred 
and  the  crowds  of  curiosity  seekers  withdrew  from  Ilexhurst. 

Unfortunately  during  the  era  of  excitement  Gerald  was  locked  in 
his  room,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  some  question  of  memory  that 
had  come  upon  him,  and  he  was  not  summoned  as  a  witness,  from  the 
fact  that  in  no  way  had  he  been  mentioned  in  the  case,  except  by  Gen. 
Evan,  who  testified  that  he  was  asleep  when  the  death  occurred.  The 
German  professor  and  Gen.  Evan  were  witnesses  and  gave  their  testi 
mony  readily. 

Evan  explained  that,  although  present  at  the  finding  of  the  body, 
he  left  immediately  to  meet  a  gentleman  who  had  called,  and  did  not 
return.  When  asked  as  to  Edward's  actions  he  admitted  that  they 
were  excited,  but  stated  that  other  matters,  naming  them  briefly,  were 
engaging  them  at  the  same  time  and  that  they  were  of  a  disturbing 
nature.  The  woman,  he  said,  had  first  attracted  Edward's  attention 
by  falling  against  the  glass,  which  she  was  evidently  looking  through, 
and  which  she  broke  in  her  fall.  If  she  was  struck,  it  was  probably 
at  that  moment. 

He  was  positive  in  his  belief  that  at  the  time  the  sound  of  falling 
glass  was  heard  Edward  was  in  the  room,  but  he  would  not  state  it 


210  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

under  oath  as  a  fact.    It  was  this  evidence  that  carried  the  day. 

When  asked  where  was  Edward  Morgan  and  the  reason  for  his  ab 
sence,  he  said  that  he  had  gone  as  the  escort  of  Mrs.  Mont  joy  to  Paris, 
where  her  eyes  were  to  be  examined,  and  that  the  trip  had  been  con 
templated  for  several  weeks.  Also  that  he  would  leturn  in  less  than 
a  month. 

Nevertheless,  the  gravest  of  comments  began  to  be  heard  upon  the 
streets,  and  prophecies  were  plenty  that  Edward  would  never  return. 

And  into  these  began  to  creep  a  word  now  and  then  for  Royson. 
"He  knew  more  than  he  could  prove,"  "was  the  victim  of  circum 
stances,"  "a  bold  fellow,"  etc.,  were  fragments  of  conversation  con 
nected  with  his  name. 

"We  fought  out  that  issue  once,"  he  said,  briefly,  when  asked  directly 
about  the  character  of  the  woman  Rita,  "and  it  is  settled  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned."  And  the  public  liked  the  answer. 

No  charge,  however,  had  been  brought  against  Edward  Morgan; 
the  matter  was  simply  one  that  disturbed  the  public;  it  wanted  his 
explanation  and  his  presence.  But  behind  it  all,  behind  the  hesitancy 
which  the  stern,  open  championship  of  Evan  and  Montjoy  commanded, 
lay  the  proposition  that  of  all  people  in  the  world  only  Edward  Mor 
gan  could  have  been  benefited  by  the  death  or  the  woman;  that  he  was 
the  only  person  present  and  that  she  died  a  violent  death.  And  people 
would  talk. 

Then  came  a  greater  shock.  A  little  paper,  the  Tell-Tale,  published 
in  an  adjoining  city  and  deriving  its  support  from  the  publication  of 
scandals,  in  which  the  victim  was  described  without  naming,  was 
cried  upon  the  street.  Copies  were  sold  by  the  hundreds,  then  thous 
ands.  It  practically  charged  that  Edward  Morgan  was  the  son  of 
Rita  Morgan;  that  upon  finding  Royson  possessed  of  his  secret  he 
first  killed  the  woman  and  then  tried  to  kill  that  gentleman  in  a  duel 
into  which  Morgan  went  with  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose; 
that  upon  seeing  the  storm  gathering  he  had  fled  the  country,  under 
the  pretense  of  escorting  a  very  estimable  young  lady  and  her  mother 
abroad,  the  latter  going  to  have  her  eyes  examined  by  a  Parisian  ex 
pert,  the  celebrated  Moreau. 

It  proceeded  further;  the  young  man  had  completely  hoodwinked  and 
deceived  the  family  to  which  these  ladies  belonged,  and,  it  was  gen 
erally  understood,  would  some  day  become  the  husband  and  son-in- 
law.  Every  sensational  feature  that  could  be  imagined  was  brought 
out — even  Gerald  did  not  escape.  He  was  put  in  as  the  legitimate 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND  211 

heir  of  John  Morgan;  the  child  of  a  secret  marriage,  a  non  compos 
mentis  whose  property  was  being  enjoyed  by  the  other. 

The  excitement  in  the  city  reached  white  heat.  Col.  Montjoy  and 
Gen.  Evan  came  out  in  cards  and  denounced  the  author  of  the  letter 
an  infamous  liar,  and  made  efforts  to  bring  the  editor  of  the  sheet  into 
court.  He  could  not  be  found. 

Days  slipped  by,  and  then  came  the  climax!  One  of  the  sensational 
papers  of  New  York  published  a  four-column  illustrated  article  headed 
"A  Southern  Tragedy,"  which  pretended  to  give  the  history  of  all  the 
Morgans  for  fifty  years  or  more.  In  this  story  the  writer  displayed 
considerable  literary  ability,  and  the  situations  were  dramatically 
set  forth.  Pictures  of  Ilexhurst  were  given;  the  murder  of  a  negro 
woman  in  the  night  and  a  fancy  sketch  of  Edward.  The  crowning 
shame  was  bold  type.  No  such  sensation  had  been  known  since  the 
race  riots  of  1874. 

In  reply  to  this  Montjoy  and  Evan  also  telegraphed  fiery  denuncia 
tions  and  demanded  the  author's  name.  Their  telegrams  were  pub 
lished,  and  demands  treated  with  contempt.  Norton  Montjoy,  in  New 
York,  had  himself  interviewed  by  rival  papers,  gave  the  true  history 
of  Morgan  and  denounced  the  story  in  strong  terms.  He  consulted 
lawyers  and  was  informed  that  the  Montjoys  had  no  right  of  action. 

Court  met  and  the  grand  jury  conferred.  Here  was  evidence  of 
imurder,  and  here  was  a  direct  published  charge.  In  vain  Evan  and 
Virdow  testified  before  it.  The  strong  influence  of  the  former  could 
not  carry  the  day.  The  jury  itself  was  political.  It  was  part  of  the 
Swearingen  ring.  When  it  had  completed  its  labors  and  returned 
its  batch  of  bills,  it  was  known  in  a  few  hours  that  Edward  Morgan 
had  been  indicted  for  the  murder  of  Rita  Morgan. 

Grief  and  distress  unspeakable  reigned  in  the  houses  of  Gen.  Evan 
and  Col.  Montjoy,  and  in  his  bachelor  quarters  that  night  one  man  sat 
with  his  face  upon  his  hands  and  thought  out  all  of  the  details  of  the 
sad  catastrophe.  An  unspeakable  sorrow  shone  in  his  big  eyes.  Bark3- 
dale  had  been  touched  in  the  tenderest  part  of  his  life.  Morgan  he 
admired  and  respected,  but  the  name  of  the  woman  he  loved  had  been 
bespattered  with  mud.  With  him  there  rested  no  duty.  Had  the  cir 
cumstances  been  different,  there  would  have  been  a  tragedy  at  the 
expense  of  his  last  dollar — and  he  was  rich. 

At  the  expense  even  of  his  enterprise  and  his  business  reputation, 
he  would  have  found  the  author  of  those  letters  and  have  shot  him 
to  death  at  the  door  of  a  church,  if  necessary.  There  is  one  point  on 


212  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

which  the  south  has  suffered  no  change. 

Morgan,  he  felt,  would  do  the  same,  but  now,  alas,  Morgan  was  in 
dicted  for  another  murder,  and  afterward  it  would  be  too  late.  Too 
late !  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  gave  vent  to  a  frightful  malediction ; 
then  he  grew  calm  through  sheer  astonishment.  Without  knock  or 
inquiry  his  door  was  thrown  open  and  Gerald  Morgan  rushed  into  the 
room. 

When  Barksdale  had  last  seen  this  man  he  doubted  his  ability  to 
stand  the  nervous  strain  put*  upon  him,  but  here  was  evidence  of  an 
excitement  tenfold  greater.  Gerald  quivered  like  an  overtaxed  engine, 
and  deep  in  the  pale  face  the  blazing  eyes  shone  with  a  horrible  fierce 
ness.  The  cry  he  uttered  as  he  paused  before  Barksdale  was  so  un 
earthly  that  he  unconsciously  drew  back.  The  young  man  was  unroll 
ing  some  papers.  Upon  them  were  the  scenes  of  the  grave  as  he  drew 
them — the  open  coffin,  the  shrunken  face  of  the  woman — and  then, 
in 'all  its  repulsive  exactness,  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  turned  up 
on  the  artist  under  the  electric  light ! 

"What  does  it  mean,  my  friend?"  said  Barksdale,  seeking  by  a  forced 
calmness  to  reduce  the  almost  irrational  visitor  to  reason  again. 

"What?"  exclaimed  Gerald;  "don't  you  understand?  The  man  un 
covered  that  coffin;  he;  struck  that  blow  upon  poor  dead  Rita's  head! 
I  saw  him  face  to  face  and  drew  those  pictures  that  night.  There 
is  the  date." 

"You  saw  him?"  Barksdale  could  not  grasp  the  truth  for  an  in 
stant. 

"I  saw  him!" 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"I  do  not  know;  I  do  not  know!"  A  thrill  ran  through  the  now  eager 
man,  and  he  felt  that  instead  of  calming 'the  excitement  of  his  visitor 
he  was  getting  infected  by  it.  He  sat  down  deliberately. 

"Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Morgan,  and  tell  me  about  it."  But  Gerald  drop 
ped  the  pictures  and  stood  over  them. 

"There  was  the  grave,"  he  said,  "and  the  man  was  down  in  it;  I 
stood  up  here  and  lifted  a  spade,  but  then  he  had  struck  and  was 
arranging  her  hair.  If  he  had  struck  her  again  I  would  have  killed 
him.  I  wanted  to  see  what  it  was  about.  I  wanted  to  see  the  man. 
He  fled,  and  then  I  followed.  Downtown  I  saw  him  under  an  electric 
light  and  got  his  face.  He  was  the  man,  the  infamous,  cowardly 
scoundrel  who  struck  poor  Rita  in  her  coffin;  but  why — why  should 
any  one  want  to  strike  Rita?  I  can't  see.  I  can't  see.  And  then  to 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND  213 

charge  Edward  with  it!" 

Barksdale's  blood  ran  cold  during  the  recital,  the  scene  so  vividly 
pictured,  the  uncanny  face  before  him.  It  was  horrible.  But  over 
all  came  the  realization  that  some  hidden  hand  was  deliberately  strik 
ing  at  the  life  of  Edward  Morgan  through  the  grave  of  the  woman. 
The  cowardliness,  the  infamy,  the  cruelty  was  overpowering.  He 
turned  away  his  face. 

But  the  next  instant  he  was  cool.  It  was  a  frail  and  doubtful  bar 
rier  between  Edward  and  ruin,  this  mind  unfolding  its  secret.  If 
it  failed  there  was  no  other  witness. 

"What  became  of  the  man,  did  you  say?" 

"I  do  not  know.     I  wanted  his  face;  I  got  it." 

"Where  did  you  last  see  him?" 

"On  the  street."     Barksdale  arose  deliberately. 

"Mr.  Morgan,  how  did  you  come  here?" 

"I  suppose  I  walked.  I  want  you  to  help  me  find  the  man  who  struck 
the  blow." 

"You  are  right,  we  must  find  the  man.  Now,  I  have  a  request  to 
(make.  Edward  trusted  to  my  judgment  in  the  other  affair,  and  it 
came  out  right,  did  it  not?" 

"Yes.     That  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"Trust  me  again.  Go  home  now  and  take  that  picture.  Preserve 
it  as  you  would  your  life,  for  on  it  may  hang  the  life  of  Edward  Mor 
gan.  You  understand?  And  do  not  open  your  lips  on  this  subject  to 
any  one  until  I  see  you  again." 

Gerald  rolled  up  the  paper  and  turned  away  abruptly.  Barksdale 
followed  him  down  the  steps  and  called  a  hack. 

"Your  health,"  he  said  to  Gerald,  as  he  gently  forced  him  into  the 
carriage,  "must  not  be  risked.  And  to  the  driver,  slipping  a  fee  in 
his  hand:  "Take  Mr.  Morgan  to  Ilexhurst.  Remember,  Mr.  Morgan," 
he  called  out. 

"I  remember,"  was  the  reply.  "I  never  forget.  Would  to  God  I 
could." 

Barksdale  walked  rapidly  to  the  livery  stable. 


214  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
WITH  THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  HIM 

Edward  Morgan  gave  himself  up  to  the  dream.  The  flying  train 
speok  onward,  out  of  the  pine  forest,  into  the  hills  and  the  shadow  of 
mountains,  into  the  broad  world  of  life  and  great  cities. 

They  had  the  car  almost  to  themselves,  for  the  northward  travel 
is  small  at  that  season. 

Before  him  was  the  little  woman  of  the  motherly  face  and  smooth, 
soft  hand,  and  behind  her,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  light  litera 
ture  with  which  he  had  surrounded  her,  was  the  girl  about  whom  all 
the  tendrils  of  his  hungry  life  were  twining.  He  could  see  her  half- 
profile,  the  contour  of  the  smooth  cheek,  the  droop  of  eyelid,  the  fluff 
of  curly  hair  over  her  brow,  and  the  shapely  little  head.  He  was 
content. 

It  was  a  novel  and  suggestive  situation.  And  yet — only  a  dream. 
No  matter  how  far  he  wandered,  how  real  seemed  the  vision,  it  always 
ended  there — it  was  but  a  dream,  a  waking  dream.  He  had  at  last 
no  part  in  her  life;  he  would  never  have. 

And  yet  again,  why  not?  The  world  was  large;  he  felt  its  large 
ness  as  they  rushed  from  center  to  center,  saw  the  teeming  crowds 
here,  the  far-stretching  farms  and  dwellings  there.  The  world  was 
large,  and  they  were  at  best  but  a  man  and  a  woman.  If  she  loved 
him  what  did  it  matter?  It  meant  only  a  prolonged  and  indefinite  stay 
abroad  in  the  land  he  best  knew;  all  its  pleasures,  its  comforts,  his — 
and  hers. 

If  only  she  loved  him!  He  lived  over  every  minute  detail  of  their 
short  companionship,  from  the  hour  he  saw  her,  the  little  madonna, 
until  he  kissed  her  hand  and  promised  unnecessarily  that  he  would 
never  break  her  heart.  A  strange  comfort  followed  this  realization. 
Come  what  might,  humiliation,  disgrace,  separation,  she  loved  him! 

His  fixed  gaze  as  he  dreamed  had  its  effect;  she  looked  up  from  her 
pictures  and  back  to  him. 

A  rush  of  emotions  swept  away  his  mood;  he  rose  almost  angrily; 
it  was  a  question  between  him  and  his  Savior  only.  God  had  made  the 
world  and  named  its  holiest  passion  love,  and  if  they  loved  blindly, 
foolishly,  fatally,  God,  not  he,  was  to  blame.  He  went  and  sat  by  her. 


WITH  THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOVED  HIM  215 

"You  puzzle  me  sometimes,"  she  said.  "You  are  animated  and 
bright  and — well,  charming  often — and  then  you  seem  to  go  back  in 
to  your  shell  and  hide.  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  happy,  Mr.  Morgan." 

"Not  happy?  Hardly.  But  then  no  bachelor  can  be  quite  happy," 
he  added,  returning  her  smile. 

"I  should  think  otherwise,"  she  answered.  "When  I  look  about 
among  my  married  friends  I  sometimes  wonder  why  men  ever  marry. 
They  seem  to  surrender  so  much  for  so  little.  I  am  afraid  if  I  were 
a  bachelor  there  isn't  a  woman  living  whom  I  would  marry — not  if 
she  had  the  wealth  of  Vanderbilt." 

Edward  laughed  outright. 

"If  you  were  a  bachelor,"  he  answered,  "you  would  not  have  such 
thoughts." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  she  said  trying  to  frown. 

"Because  you  are  not  a  bachelor." 

"Then,"  she  said,  mockingly,  "I  suppose  I  never  will — since  I  can't 
be  a  bachelor." 

"The  mystery  to  me,"  said  Edward,  "is  why  women  ever  marry." 

"Because  they  love,"  answered  the  girl.  "There  is  no  mystery  about 
that." 

"But  they  take  on  themselves  so  much  care,  anxiety,  suffering." 

"Love  can  endure  that." 

"And  how  often  it  means — death!" 

"And  that,  too,  love  does  not  consider.  It  would  not  hesitate  if  it 
knew  in  advance." 

"You  speak  for  yourself?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  If  I  loved,  I  am  afraid  I  would  love  blindly,  reck 
lessly.  It  is  the  way  of  Montjoy  women — and  they  say  I  am  all  Mont- 
joy." 

"Would  you  follow  barefooted  and  in  rags  from  city  to  city  behind 
a  man,  drunken  and  besotted,  to  sing  upon  the  streets  for  a  crust  and 
sleep  under  a  hedge,  his  chances  your  chances,  and  you  with  no  claim 
upon  him  save  that  you  loved  him  once?  I  have  seen  it."  She  shook 
her  head. 

"The  man  I  loved  could  never  sink  so  low.  He  would  be  a  gentle 
man,  proud  of  his  name,  of  his  talents,  of  his  honor.  If  misfortune 
came  h$  would  starve  under  the  first  hedge  before  he  would  lead  me 
out  to  face  a  scornful  world.  And  if  it  were  misfortune  only  I  would 
sing  for  him — yes,  if  necessary,  beg,  unknown  to  him  for  money  to 
help  him  in  misfortune.  Only  let  him  keep  the  manliness  within  him 


216  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

undimmed  by  act  ofi  his."     He  gazed  into  her  glowing  face. 

"f  thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  never  understood  a  true  woman's  heart 
before." 

The  express  rushed  into  new  and  strange  scenes.  There  were  battle 
fields  pointed  out  by  the  conductor — mere  landscapes  only  the  names 
of  which  were  thrilling.  Manassas  glided  by,  the  birthplace  of  a 
great  hope  that  perished.  How  often  she  had  heard  her  father  and 
the  general  tell  of  that  battle! 

And  then  the  white  shaft  or  the  Washington  monument,  and  the 
capitol  dome  rose  in  the  distance. 

As  they  glided  over  the  long  bridge  across  the  Potomac  and  touched 
the  soil  of  the  capital  city  and  the  street  lights  went  past,  the  young 
woman  viewed  the  scenes  with  intense  interest.  Washington!  But 
for  that  infamous  assault  upon  her  father,  through  the  man  who  had 
been  by  her  side,  he  would  have  walked  the  streets  again,  a  Southern 
congressman ! 

They  took  rooms  to  give  the  little  mamma  a  good  night's  rest,  and 
then,  with  the  same  unconventional  freedom  of  the  hall,  Mary  wandered 
out  with  Edward  to  view  the  avenue.  They  went  and  stood  at  the  foot 
of  that  great  white  pile  which  closes  one  end  of  the  avenue,  and  were 
awed  into  silence  by  its  grandeur. 

She  would  see  grander  sights,  but  never  one  that  would  impress  her 
more.  She  thought  of  her  father  alone,  away  back  in  Georgia,  at  the 
old  home,  sitting  just  then  upon  the  porch  smoking  his  pipe.  Perhaps 
the  Duchess  was  asleep  in  his  lap,  perhaps  the  general  had  come  over 
to  keep  him  company,  and  if  so  they  were  talking  of  the  absent  ones. 
Edward  saw  her  little  hand  lightly  laid  upon  her  eyes  for  a  moment, 
and  comprehended. 

Morning!  And  now  the  crowded  train  sweeps  northward  through 
the  great  cities  and  opens  up  bits  of  marine  views.  For  the  first  time 
the  girl  sees  a  stately  ship,  with  wings  unfurled,  "go  down  into  the 
seas,"  vanishing  upon  the  hazy  horizon,  "like  some  strain  of  sweet 
melody  silenced  and  made  visible,"  as  Edward  quoted  from  a  far-away 
poet  friend. 

"And  if  you  will  watch  it  intently,"  he  added,  "and  forget  yourself 
you  will  lose  sight  of  the  ship  and  hear  again  the  melody."  And  then 
came  almost  endless  streets  of  villages  and  towns,  the  smoke  of  fac 
tories,  the  clamor  and  clangor  of  life  massed  in  a  small  compass,  a 
lull  of  the  motion,  hurrying  crowds  and  the  cheery,  flushed  face  of 
Norton  pressed  to  his  mother's  and  to  hers. 


THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SANG  217 

The  first  stage  of  the  journey  was  over.  Across  the  river  rose,  in 
dizzy  disorder  and  vastness,  New  York. 

The  men  clasped  hands  and  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes,  Mont- 
joy  smiling,  Morgan  grave.  It  seemed,  to  the  latter  that  the  smile  of 
his  friend  meant  nothing;  that  behind  it  lay  anxiety,  questioning. 
He  did  not  waver  under  the  look,  and  in  a  moment  the  hand  that  held 
his  tightened  again.  Morgan  had  answered.  Half  the  conversation  of 
life  is  carried  on  without  words.  Morgan  had  answered,  but  he  could 
not  forget  his  friend's  questioning  gaze.  Nor  could  he  forget  that 
his  friend  had  a  wife. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SANG. 

The  stay  of  the  party  in  New  York  was  short.  Norton  was  busy 
with  trade  that  could  not  wait.  He  stole  a  part  of  a  day,  stuffed  the 
pocketbooks  of  the  ladies  with  gold,  showed  them  around  and  then 
at  last  they  looked  from  the  deck  of  a  "greyhound"  and  saw  the  slopes 
of  Staten  island  and  the  highlands  sink  low  upon  the  horizon. 

The  first  night  at  sea!  The  traveler  never  forgets  it.  Scenes  of 
the  past  may  shine  through  it  like  ink  renewed  in  the  dimmed  lines 
of  a  palimpsest  through  later  records,  but  this  night  stands  supreme 
as  if  it  were  the  sum  of  all.  For  in  this  night  the  fatherland  behind 
and  the  heart  grown  tender  in  the  realization  of  its  isolation,  coone 
back  again  the  olden  experiences.  Dreams  that  have  passed  into 
the  seas  of  eternity  meet  it  and  shine  again.  Old  loves  return  and 
fold  their  wings,  and  hopes  grown  wrinkled  with  disappointment 
throw  off  dull  Time's  imprints  and  are  young  once  more. 

To  the  impressionable  heart  of  the  girl,  the  vastness  and  the  solem. 
nity  brought  strange  thoughts.  She  stood  by  the  rail,  silenced,  sad, 
but  not  with  the  sadness  that  oppresses.  By  her  was  the  man  who 
through  life's  hidden  current  had  brought  her  all  unknowing  into 
harmony  with  the  eternal  echos  rising  into  her  consciousness. 

At  last  she  came  back  to  life's  facts.  She  found  her  hand  in  his 
again,  and  gently,  without  protest,  disengaged  it.  Her  face  was  white 
and  fixed  upon  nothingness. 


218  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Of  what  are  your  thinking?"  she  asked,  gently.  He  started  and 
drew  breath  with  a  gasp. 

"I  do  not  know — of  you,  I  suppose."  And  then,  as  she  was  silent 
and  embarrassed:  "There  is  a  tone  in  the  ocean,  a  note  I  have  never 
heard  before,  and  I  have  listened  on  all  seas.  But  here  is  the  new 
song  different  from  all.  I  could  listen  forever." 

"I  have  read  somewhere,"  she  said,  "that  all  the  sound  waves  escape 
to  the  ocean.  They  jostle  and  push  against  each  other  where  men 
abound,  the  new  crowding  out  the  old;  but  out  at  sea  there  is  room 
for  all.  It  may  be  that  you  hear  only  as  your  heart  is  attuned." 

He  nodded  his  head,  pleased  greatly. 

"Then  I  have  heard  to-night,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "a  song  of  a  wo 
man  to  the  man  she  loves." 

"But  you  could  not  have  heard  it  unless  your  heart  was  attuned  to 
love's  melodies.  Have  you  ever  loved  a  woman,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

He  started  and  his  hand  tightened  upon  the  guard. 

"I  was  a  boy  in  heart  when  I  went  abroad,"  he  said.  "I  had  never 
known  a  woman's  love  and  sympathy.  In  Switzerland  a  little  girl 
gave  me  a  glass  of  goat's  milk  at  a  cottage  door  in  the  mountains. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  than  12  years  old.  I  heard  her  singing 
as  I  approached,  her  voice  marvelous  in  its  power  and  pathos.  Her 
simple  dress  was  artistic,  her  face  frank  and  eyes  confiding.  I  loved 
her.  I  painted  her  picture  and  carried  her  both  in  my  heart  and  my 
satchel  for  three  years.  I  did  not  love  her  and  yet  I  believed  I  did. 
But  I  think  that  I  must  have  loved  at  some  time.  As  you  say,  I  could 
not  have  heard  if  it  were  not  so."  He  drew  her  away  and  sought  the 
cabin.  But  when  he  said  good-night  he  came  and  walked  the  deck 
for  an  hour,  and  once  he  tossed  his  arms  above  him  and  cried  out  in 
agony:  "I  cannot!  I  cannot!  The  heart  was  not  made  for  such 
a  strain!" 

*     *     * 

Six  times  they  saw  the  sun  rise  over  the  path  ahead,  ascend  to  the 
zenith  and  sink  away,  and  six  times  the  endless  procession  of  stars 
glinted  on  the  myriad  facets  of  the  sea.  The  hundreds  of  strange 
faces  about  them  grew  familiar,  almost  homelike.  The  ladies  made 
acquaintances;  but  Edward  none.  When  they  were  accessible  he  never 
left  their  presence,  devoting  himself  with  tender  solicitude  to  their 
service,  reading  to  them,  reciting  bits  of  adventure,  explaining  the 
phenomena  of  the  elements,  exhibiting  the  ship  and  writing  in  their 
journals  the  record  for  the  father  at  home.  When  they  were  gone 


THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SANG  219 

he  walked  the  deck  silent,  moody,  sad;  alone  in  the  multitude. 

People  had  ceased  to  interest  him.  Once  only  did  he  break  the  silence; 
from  the  ship's  orchestra  he  borrowed  a  violin,  and  standing  upon 
the  deck,  as  at  first,  he  found  the  love-song  again  and  linked  it  for 
ever  with  his  life.  It  was  the  ocean's  gift  and  he  kept  it. 

He  thought  a  great  deal,  but  from  the  facts  at  home  he  turned 
resolutely.  They  should  not  mar  the  only  summer  of  his  heart.  "Not 
now,"  he  would  say  to  these!  trooping  memories.  "After  a  while  you 
may  come  and  be  heard." 

But  of  the  future  he  thought  and  dreamed.  He  pictured  a  life 
with  the  woman  he  loved,  in  every  detail;  discounting  its  pleasures, 
denying  the  possibility  of  sorrow.  There  were  times  when  with  her 
he  found  himself  wishing  to  be  alone  that  he  might  review  the  dream 
and  enlarge  it.  It  ceased  to  be  a  dream,  it  became  a  fact,  he  lived 
with  it  and  he  lived  by  it.  It  was  possible  no  longer;  it  was  certain. 
Some  day  he  would  begin  it;  he  would  tell  it  to  her  and  make  it  so 
beautiful  she  would  consent. 

All  this  time  the  elder  lady  thought,  listened  and  knitted.  She  was 
one  of  those  gentle  natures  not  made  for  contentions,  but  for  sooth 
ing.  She  was  never  idle.  Edward  found  himself  watching  the  busy 
needles  as  they  fought  for  the  endless  thread,  and  marveled.  What 
patience!  What  continuity!  What  endurance! 

The  needles  of  good  women  preach  as  they  labor.  He  knew  the 
history  of  these.  For  forty  years  they  had  labored,  those  bits  of 
steel  in  the  velvet  fingers.  Husband,  children,  slaves,  all  had  felt 
upon  their  feet  the  soft  summings  of  their  calculations.  One  whole 
company  of  soldiers,  the  gallant  company  her  husband  had  led  into 
Confederate  service,  had  threaded  the  Wilderness  in  her  socks,  and 
died  nearly  all  at  Malvern  Hill.  Down  deep  under  the  soil  of  the  old 
Mother  State  they  planted  her  work  from  sight,  and  the  storms  of 
winter  removed  its  imprints  where,  through  worn  and  wasted  leather, 
it  had  touched  virgin  soil  as  the  bleeding  survivors  came  limping  home. 
Forty  years  had  stilled  the  thought  on  which  it  was  based.  It  was 
strong  and  resolute  still.  Some  day  the  needles  would  rust  out  of 
sight,  the  hands  be  folded  in  rest  and  the  thought  would  be  gone.  Ed 
ward  glanced  from  the  woman  to  the  girl. 

"Not  so,"  he  said,  softly;  "the  thought  will  live.  Other  hands 
trained  under  its  sweet  ministry  will  take  up  the  broken  threads; 
the  needles  will  flash  again.  Woman's  work  is  never  done,  and  never 
will  be  while  love  and  faith  and  courage  have  lodgment  upon  earth. 


220  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Did  you  speak,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Possibly.  I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud.  And  I 
was  thinking  of  you;  it  must  have  been  a  great  privilege  to  call  you 
mother,  Mrs.  Montjoy."  She  smiled  a  little. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"I  have  never  called  any  by  that  name,"  he  said,  slowly,  looking 
away.  "I  never  knew  a  mother." 

"That  will  excuse  a  great  many  things  in  a  man's  life,"  she  said, 
in  sympathy.  "You  have  no  remembrance,  then?" 

"None.  She  died  when  I  was  an  infant,  I  suppose,  and  I  grew  up, 
principally,  in  schools." 

"And  your  father?" 

"He  also — died."  He  was  reckless  for  the  moment.  "Sometimes  I 
think  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  call  you — mother.  Itf  is  late  to  begin, 
but  think  of  a  man's  living  and  dying  without  once  speaking  the  name 
to  a  woman." 

"Call  one  that  if  you  will.  You  are  certainly  all  that  a  son  could 
be  to  me." 

"Mother,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "mother,"  and  then  looking  toward 
Mary  he  saw  that,  though  reading,  her  face  was  crimson;  "that  gives 
me  a  sister,  does  it  not?"  he  added,  to  relieve  the  situation.  She 
glanced  toward  him,  smiling. 

"As  you  will,  brother  Edward — how  natural." 

"I  like  the  mother  better,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  have  ob 
served  that  brothers  do  not  wear  well.  I  should  hate  to  see  the  day 
when  it  would  not  be  a  pleasure  to  be  with  you,  Miss  Montjoy."  He 
could  not  control  nor  define  his  mood. 

"Then,"  she  said,  with  eyes  upon  the  book,  "let  it  not  be  broth 
er.  I  would  be  sorry  to  see  you  drift  away — we  are  all  your  friends." 

"Friends!"  He  repeated  *the  wofrd  contemplatively.  "That  is 
another  word  I  am  not  fond  of.  I  have  seen  so  many  friends — not 
my  own,  but  friends  of  others!  Friends  steal  your  good  name,  your 
opportunities,  your  happiness,  your  time  and  your  salvation.  Oh, 
friendship!" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  Mr.  Morgan?"  said  Mary.  "I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  in  just  such  a  frame  of  mind.  What  has 
made  you  cynical?" 

"Am  I  cynical?  I  did  not  know  it.  Possibly  I  am  undergoing  a 
metamorphosis.  Such  things  occur  about  us  every  day.  Have  you 
ever  seen  the  locust,  as  he  is  called,  come  up  out  of  the  earth  and  attach 


221 

himself  to  a  tree  and  hang  there  brooding,  living  an  absolutely  worth 
less  life?  Some  day  a  rent  occurs  down  his  own  back  and  out  comes 
the  green  cicada,  with  iridescent  wings;  no  longer  a  dull  plodder, 
but  now  a  swift  wanderer,  merry  and  musical.  So  with  the  people 
about  you.  Useless  and  unpicturesque  for  years,  they  some  day  suffer 
a  change;  a  piece  of  good  luck,  success  in  business;  any  of  these  can 
furnish  sunlight,  and  the  change  is  born.  Behold  your  clodhopper  is 
a  gay  fellow." 

"But,"  said  the  girl,  laughing,  "the  simile  is  poor;  you  do  not  see  the 
cicada  go  back  from  the  happy  traveler  stage  and  become  a  cynic." 

"True.  What  does  become  of  him?  Oh,  yes;  along  comes  the  ic- 
neumon  fly  and  by  a  skillful  blow  on  the  spine  paralyzes  him  and  then 
thrusts  under  his  skin  an  egg  to  be  warmed  into  life  by  its  departing 
heat.  That  is  the  conclusion;  your  gay  fellow  and  careless  traveler 
gets  an  overwhelming  blow;  an  idea  or  a  fact,  or  a  bit  of  information 
to  brood  upon;  and  some  day  it  kills  him." 

She  was  silent,  trying  to  read  the  meaning  in  his  words.  What 
idea,  what  fact,  what  overwhelming  blow  were  killing  him?  Some 
thing,  she  was  sure,  had  disturbed  him.  She  had  felt  it  for  weeks. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  expressed  a  desire  to  go  to  her  stateroom,  and  Edward 
accompained  her.  The  girl  had  ceased  reading  and  sat  with  her  chin 
in  hand,  revolving  the  matter.  After  he  had  resumed  his  position 
she  turned  to  find  his  gaze  upon  her.  They  walked  to  the  deck;  the 
air  was  cold  and  bracing* 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  so  opposed  to  sisters,"  she  said,  smiling.  "If 
I  were  a  sister  I  would  ask  you  to  share  your  trouble  with  me." 

"What  trouble?" 

"The  trouble  that  is  changing  the  careless  traveler  to  a  cynic — is 
killing  his  better  self." 

He  ceased  to  speak  in  metaphor.  "There  is  a  trouble,"  he  said,  after 
reflection;  "but  one  beyond  your  power  to  remedy  or  lighten.  Some 
day  I  will  tell  it  to  you — but  not  now." 

"You  do  not  trust  me." 

"I  do  not  trust  myself."  She  was  silent,  looking  away.  She  said 
no  more.  Pale  and  trembling  with  suppressed  emotion,  he  stood  up. 
A  look  of  determination  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  faced  her.  At  that 
moment  a  faint,  far  cry  was  heard  and  every  one  in  sight  looked  for 
ward. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  a  passenger,  as  the  captain  passed. 

"The  cliffs  of  England,"  he  said.    Edward  turned  and  walked  away, 


222  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

leaving  her  leaning  upon  the  rail.    He  came  back  smoking.    His  mood 
had  passed. 

The  excitement  had  begun  at  once.  On  glided  the  good  ship.  Taller 
grew  the  hills,  shipping  began  to  appear,  and  land  objects  to  take 
shape.  And  then  the  deep  heart  throbbing  ceased  and  the  glad  voy 
agers  poured  forth  upon  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 
THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE. 

Paris ! 

With  emotions  difficult  to  appreciate  Edward  found  himself  at  home, 
for  of  all  places  Paris  meant  that  to  him.  He  went  at  once  to  his 
old  quarters;  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  quiet  but  accessible  street,  where 
was  combined  something  of  both  city  and  suburban  life.  The  con 
cierge  almost  overwhelmed  him  with  his  welcome. 

In  obedience  to  his  letters,  everything  had  been  placed  in  order, 
books  and  furniture  dusted,  the  linen  renewed,  the  curtains  laundered 
and  stiffened  anew,  and  on  the  little  center  table  was  a  vase  of  crim 
son  roses — a  contribution  for  madame  and  mademoiselle. 

His  own,  the  larger  room,  was  surrendered  to  the  ladies;  the  smaller 
he  retained.  There  was  the  little  parlor  between,  for  common  use. 
Outside  was  the  shady  vista  of  the  street  and  in  the  distance  the 
murmur  of  the  city. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  was  delighted  with  the  arrangement  and  the  scene. 
Mary  absorbed  all  the  surroundings  of  the  owner's  past  life;  every 
picture,  every  book  and  bit  of  bric-a-brac,  all  were  parts  of  him  and 
full  of  interest.  The  very  room  seemed  imbued  with  his  presence. 
Here  was  his  shaded  student's  lamp,  there  the  small  upright  piano, 
with  its  stack  of  music  and,  in  place  ready  for  the  player,  an  open 
sheet.  It  might  have  been  yesterday  that  he  arose  from  its  stool, 
walked  out  and  closed  the  door. 

It  was  a  little  home,  and  when  coming  into  the  parlor  from  his 
dressing  room,  Edward  saw  her  slender  figure,  he  paused,  and  then 
the  old  depression  returned. 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE  223 

Shei  found  him  watching  her,  and  noted  the  troubled  look  upon  hia 
face. 

"It  is  all  so  cozy  and  beautiful,"  she  said.  I  am  so  glad  that  you 
brought  us  here  rather  than  to  a  hotel." 

"And  I,  too,  if  you  are  pleased." 

"Pleased!    It  is  simply  perfect  I" 

A  note  lay  upon  the  center  table.  He  noticed  that  it  was  addressed 
to  him,  and,  excusing  himself,  opened  it  and  read: 

"M.  Morgan.  Benoni,  the  maestro,  is  ill  and!  desires  monsieur.  It 
will  be  well  if  monsieur  comes  quickly.  "Annette." 

He  rang  the  bell  hurriedly  and  the  concierge  appeared. 

"This  note,"  said  Edward,  speaking  rapidly  in  French;  "has  it 
been  long  here?" 

"Since  yesterday.  I  sent  it  back,  and  they  returned  it.  Monsieur 
is  not  disappointed,  I  trust."  Edward  shook  his  head  and  was  seek 
ing  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"You  recall  my  old  friend,  the  maestro,  who  gave  me  the  violin," 
he  said,  remembering  Mary.  "The  note  says  he  is  very  ill.  It  was 
sent  yesterday.  Make  my  excuses  to  your  mother;  I  will  not  stay 
long.  If  I  do  not  see  you  here,  I  will  seek  you  over  yonder  in  the 
park,  where  the  band  may  be  playing  shortly;  and  then!  we  will  find 
a  supper." 

Walking  rapidly  to  a  cab  stand  he  selected  one  with  a  promising 
horse,  and  gave  directions.  He  was  carried  at  a  rapid  rate  into  the 
region  of  the  Quartier  Latin  and  in  a  few  moments  found  the  maes- 
tro's  home. 

One  or  two  persons  were  by  him  when  he  entered  the  room,  and 
they  turned  and  looked  curiously.  "Edward!"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
lifting  his  sightless  eyes  toward  the  door;  "there  is  but  one  who  steps 
like  that!" 

Edward  approached  and  took  his  hand.  The  sick  man  was  sitting 
In  his  arm-chair,  wrapped  in  his  faded  dressing-gown.  "My  friends," 
he  continued,  lifting  his  hand  with  a  slight  gesture  of  dismissal, 
"you  have  been  kind  to  Benoni;  God  will  reward  you;  farewell!" 

The  friends,  one  a  woman  of  the  neighborhood,  the  other  the  wife 
of  the  concierge,  came  and  touched  his  hand,  and,  bowing  to  Edward, 
withdrew,  lifting  their  white  aprons  to  their  faces  as  they  passed 
from  the  room. 

"You  are  very  ill,"  said  Edward,  placing  his  hand  upon  the  old  man's 
arm ;  "I  have  just  returned  to  Paris  and  came  at  once." 


224  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Very  ill,  indeed."  He  leaned  back  his  head  wearily.  "It  will  soon 
be  over." 

"Have  you  no  friends  who  should  know  of  this,  good  Benoni;  no 
relatives?  You  have  been  silent  upon  this  subject,  and  I  have  never 
questioned  you.  I  will  bring1  them  if  you  will  let  me."  Benoni  shook 
his  head. 

"Never.  I  am  to  them  already  dead."  A  fit  of  coughing  seized 
him,  and  he  became  greatly  exhausted.  Upon  the  table  was  a  small 
bottle  containing  wine,  left  by  one  of  the  women.  Edward  poured  out 
a  draught  and  placed  it  to  the  bloodless  lips. 

"One  is  my  wife,"  said  the  dying  man,  with  sudden  energy,  "my 
own  wife." 

"I  will  answer  that  she  conies ;  she  cannot  refuse." 

"Refuse?  No,  indeed!  She  has  been  searching  for  me  for  a  life 
time.  Many  times  she  has  looked  upon  me  without  recognition.  She 
would  come;  she  has  been  here — she  has  been  here!" 

"And  did  not  know  you?    It  isi  possible?" 

"She  did  not  know." 

"You  told  her,  though?" 

"No." 

"You  never  told  her — "  There  was  a  pause.  The  sick  man  said, 
gasping: 

"I  am  a  convict!"  A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  young 
man.  The  old  violinist  resented  his  sudden  start  and  exclamation. 
"But  a  convict  innocent.  I  swear  it  before  my  Maker!"  Edward  was 
deeply  touched. 

"None  can  doubt  that  who  knows  you,  Benoni." 

"He  threatened  my  life;  he  struck  at  me  with  his  knife;  I  turned 
it  on  him,  and  he  fell  dead.  I  did  what  I  could;  I  was  stanching  the 
wound  when  they  seized  me.  His  ring  jewel  had  cut  my  face;  but  for 
that  I  would  have  been  executed.  I  had  no  friends,  even  my  name 
was  not  my  own.  I  went  to  prison  and  labor  for  twenty  years." 

He  named  the  length  of  his  sentence  in  a  whisper.  It  was  a  horror 
he  could  never  understand.  He  stretched  out  his  hand.  "Wine." 
Again  Edward  restored  something  of  the  fleeting  strength. 

"She  came,"  he  said,  "searching  for  me.  I  was  blind  then;  they 
had  been  careless  with  their  blasting — my  eyes  were  gone,  my  hair 
white,  my  face  scarred.  She  did  not  know  me.  Her  voice  was  divine ! 
Her  name  has  been  in  the  mouths  of  all  men.  She  came  and  sang  at 
Christmas,  to  the  prisoners,  the  glorious  hymns  of  her  church,  and 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE        225 

she  sang  to  me.  It  was  a  song  that  none  there  knew  but  me — my  song! 
Had  she  watched  my  face,  then,  she  would  have  known;  but  how  could 
she  suspect  me,  the  blind,  the  scarred,  the  gray?  She  passed  out 
forever.  And  I,  harmless,  helpless,  soon  followed — pardoned.  I  knew 
her  name;  I  made  my  way  to  Paris  to  be  near  that  voice;  and  the 
years  passed;  I  was  poor  and  blind.  It  cost  money  to  hear  her." 

Trembling  with  emotion,  Edward  whispered:  "Her  name?"  Benoni 
shook  his  head  and  slowly  extended  his  withered  arms.  The  woolen 
wristlets  had  been  removed,  there  were  the  white  scars,  the  marks  of 
the  convict's  long-worn  irons. 

"I  have  forgiven  her;  I  will  not  bring  her  disgrace." 

"Gambia?"  said  Edward,  unconsciously.  There  was  a  loud  cry;  the 
old  man  half-rose  and  sank  back,  baffled  by  his  weakness. 

"Hush!  Hush!"  he  gasped;  "it  is  my  secret;  swear  to  me  you  will 
keep  it;  swear  to  me,  swear!" 

"I  swear  it,  Benoni,  I  swear  it."  The  old  man  seemed  to  have 
fallen  asleep;  it  was  a  stupor. 

"She  came,"  he  said,  "years  ago  and  offered  me  gold.  It  was  to  be 
the  last  effort  of  her  life.  She  could  not  believe  but  that  her  husband 
was  in  Paris  and  might  be  found.  She  believed  the  song  would  find  him. 
I  had  been  suggested  to  her  because  my  music  and  figure  were  known 
to  all  the  boulevards.  I  was  blind  and  could  never  know  her.  But  I 
knew  her  voice. 

"She  went,  veiled  to  avoid  recognition;  she  stood  by  me  at  a  certain 
place  on  the  boulevard  where  people  gather  in  the  evening  and  sang. 
What  a  song.  The  streets  were  blocked,  and  men,  I  am  told,  uncovered 
before  the  sacred  purity  of  that  voice,  and  when  all  were  there  who 
could  hear  she  sang  our  song;  while  I,  weeping,  played  the  accompani 
ment,  ay,  as  no  man  living  or  dead  could  have  played  it.  Always  in 
the  lines — 

"Oceans  may  roll  between 
Thy  home  and  thee." 

— her  voice  gave  way.    They  called  it  art. 

"Well,  I  thought,  one  day  I  will  tell;  it  was  always  the  next  day, 
but  I  knew,  as  she  sang,  in  her  mind  must  have  arisen  the  picture 
of  that  husband  standing  by  her  side — ah,  my  God,  I  could  not,  I  could 
not;  blind,  scarred,  a  felon,  I  could  not;  I  was  dead!  It  was  bitter! 

"And  then  she  came  to  me  and  said:  'Good  Benoni,  your  heart 
IB  true  and  tender;  I  thank  you;  I  have  wealth  and  plenty;  here  Ss 
gold,  take  it  in  memory  of  a  broken  heart  you  have  soothed.'  I  said: 


226  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"  'The  voice  of  that  woman,  her  song,  are  better  then  gold.  I  have 
them.'  I  went  and  stood  in  the  door  as  she,  weeping,  passed  out.  She 
lifted  her  veil  and  touched  the  forehead  of  the  old  musician  with  her 
lips,  and  then — I  hardly  knew !  I  was  lying  on  the  floor  when  Annette 
came  to  bring  my  tea." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  without  motion  after  this  recital.  Edward 
loosened  the  faded  cords  of  his  gown.  The  old  man  spoke  again  in 
a  whisper: 

"Come  closer;  there  is  another  secret.  I  knew  then  that  I  had  never 
before  loved  her.  My  marriage  had  been  an  outrage  of  heart-faith. 
I  mistook  admiration,  sympathy,  memory,  for  love.  I  was  swept 
from  my  feet  by  her  devotion,  but  it  is  true — as  God  is  my  judge,  I 
never  loved  her  until  then — until  her  sad^  ruined  life  spoke  to  me  in 
that  song  on  the  streets  of  Paris."  Edward  still  held  his  hand. 

"Benoni,"  he  said,  simply,  "there  is  no  guilt  upon  your  soul  to  have 
deserved  the  convict's  irons.  Believe  me,  it  is  better  to  send  for  her 
and  let  her  come  to  you.  Thinly  of  the  long  years  she  has  searched; 
of  the  long  years  of  uncertainty  that  must  follow.  You  cannot,  you 
cannot  pass  away  without  paying  the  debt;  it  was  your  fault  in  the 
beginning " 

The  old  man  had  gradually  lifted  his  head;  now  he  bowed  it.  "Then 
you  owe  her  the  admission.  Oh,  believe  me,  you  are  wrong  if  you 
think  the  scars  of  misfortune  can  shame  away  love.  You  do  not  know 
a  true  woman's  heart.  You  have  not  much  time,  I  fear;  let  me  send 
for  her."  There  was  no  reply.  He  knelt  and  took  one  withered  hand 
in  his.  "Benoni,  I  plead  for  you  as  for  her.  There  will  come  a  last 
moment — you  will  relent;  and  then  it  will  be  too  late." 

'Send!"  It  was  a  whisper.  The  lips  moved  again;  it  was  an  ad 
dress.  Upon  a  card  Edward  wrote  hurriedly: 

"The  blind  musician  who  once  played  for  you  is  dying.  He  has  the 
secret  of  your  life.  If  you  would  see  your  husband  alive  lose  no 
minute.  "A  Friend." 

He  dashed  from  the  room  and  ran  rapidly  to  a  cab  stand. 

"Take  this,"  he  said,  "bring  an  answer  in  thirty  minutes,  and  get 
100  francs.  If  the  police  interfere,  say  a  dying  man  waits  for  his 
friend." 

The  driver  lashed  his  horses,  and  was  lashing  them  as  he  faded  into 
the  distance. 

Edward  returned;  he  called  for  hot  water  and  bathed  the  dying 
man's  feet;  he  rubbed  his  limbs  and  poured  brandy  down  his  throat. 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE  227 

He  laid  his  watch  upon  the  little  table;  five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty, 
five — would  she  never  come?" 

Death  had  already  entered;  he  was  hovering  over  the  doomed  man. 

The  door  opened ;  a  tall  woman  of  sad  but  noble  countenance  stepped 
in,  thrusting  back  her  veil.  Edward  was  kneeling  by  Benoni's  side. 
Gambia's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  face  of  the  dying  man. 

Edward  passed  out,  leaving  them  alone.    A  name  escaped  her. 

"Gaspard." 

Slowly,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair,  the  old  man  arose  and 
listened. 

"It  was  a  voice  from  the  past,"  he  said,  clearly.  "Who  calls  Gas 
pard  Levinge?" 

"Oh,  God  in  heaven  1'*  she  moaned,  dropping  to  her  knees.  "Is  it 
true?  What  do  you  know  of  Gaspard  Levigne?" 

"Nothing  that  is  good;  but  I  am  he,  Marie!"  The  woman  rushed 
to  his  side;  she  touched  his  face  and  smoothed  the  disordered  hair. 
She  held  his  Hand  after  he  had  sunk  into  his  chair. 

"Tell  me,  in  God's  name,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  where  are  the  proofs 
of  our  marriage?  Oh,  Gaspard,  for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  your 
posterity!  You  are  dying;  do  not  deny  me!" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "I  did  not  know — there — was — another 
— I  did  not  know.  The  woman — she  wrote  that  it  died!"  He  rose 
again  to  his  feet,  animated  by  a  thought  that  gave  him  new  strength. 
Turning  his  face  toward  her  in  horror,  he  said: 

"It  is  for  you  that  you  search,  then — not  for  me!" 

"Speak,  Gaspard,  my  husband,  for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  your 
Marie,  who  loved  and  loves  you,  speak !"  His  lips  moved.  She  placed 
her  ear  to  them: 

"Dear  heaven,"  she  cried  in  despair.  "I  cannot  hear  him!  I  can 
not  hear  him!  Gaspard!  Gaspard!  Gaspard!  Ah "  The  ap 
peal  ended  in  a  shriek.  She  was  staring  into  his  glazing  eyes.  Then 
over  the  man's  face  came  a  change.  Peace  settled  there.  The  eyes 
closed  and  he  whispered:  "Freda!" 

Hearing  her  frantic  grief,  Edward  rushed  in  and  now  stood  looking 
down  in  deep  distress  upon  the  scene. 

"He  is  dead,  madame,"  he  said,  simply.  "Let  me  see  you  to  your 
home."  She  arose,  white  and  calm,  by  a  mighty  effort. 

"What  was  he  to  you?    Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"He  was  my  friend  and  master."  He  laid  his  hands  lovingly  on 
the  eyes,  closing  them.  "I  am  Edward  Morgan!"  Her  eyes  never 


228  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

left  him.  There  was  no  motion  of  her  tall  figure ;  only  her  hand  upon 
the  veil  closed  tightly  and  her  features  twitched.  They  stood  in  silence 
but  a  moment;  it  was  broken  by  Gambia.  She  had  regained  some 
thing  of  the  bearing  of  the  dramatic  soprano.  With  a  simple  dignity 
she  said: 

"Sir,  you  have  witnessed  a  painful  scene.  On  the  honor  of  a  gentle 
man  give  me  your  pledge  to  secrecy.  There  are  tragedies  in  all 
lives;  chance  has  laid  bare  to  you  the  youth  of  Gambia."  He  pointed 
downward  to  where  the  still  form  lay  between  them. 

"Above  the  body  of  your  husband — my  friend — I  swear  to  you  that 
your  secret  is  safe." 

"I  thank  you." 

She  looked  a  moment  upon  the  form  of  the  sleeper,  and  then  her 
eyes  searched  the  face  of  the  young  man.  Will  you  leave  me  alone 
with  him  a  few  moments?"  He  bowed  and  again  withdrew  into  the 
little  hall. 

When  he  was  gone  she  knelt  above  the  figure  a  long  time  in  prayer, 
and  then,  looking  for  the  last  time  upon  the  dead  face,  sadly  with 
drew.  The  young  man  took  her  to  the  carriage.  A  policeman  was 
guarding  it. 

"The  driver  broke  the  regulation  by  my1  orders,"  Edward  said;  "he 
was  bringing  this  lady  to  the  bedside  of  a  dying  friend.  Here  is 
enough  to  pay  his  fine."  He  gave  a  few  napoleons  to  the  cabman 
and  his  card  on  which  he  placed  his  address. 

"Adieu,  madame.  I  will  arrange  everything,  and  if  you  will  attend 
the  funeral  I  will  notify  you." 

"I  will  attend,"  said  Gambia;  "I  thank  you.  Adieu." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA. 

It  was  a  simple  burial.  Edward  sent  a  carriage  for  Gambia,  one 
for  the  concierge  and  his  wife,  and  in  the  other  he  brought  Mrs.  Mont- 
joy  and  Mary,  to  whom  he  had  related  a  part  of  the  history  of  Ben- 
oni,  as  he  still  called  him.  Out  in  Pere  la  Chaise  they  laid  away  the 
body  of  the  old  master,  placed  on  it  their  flowers  and  the  beautiful 


THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA  229 

wreath  that  Gambia  brought,  and  were  ready  to  return. 

As  they  approached  their  carriage,  Edward  introduced  the  ladies, 
to  whom  he  had"  already  told  of  Gambia's  career. 

They  looked  with  sympathetic  pleasure  upon  the  great  singer  and 
were  touched  by  her  interest  in  and  devotion  to  the  old  musician, 
"whom  she  had  known  in  happier  days." 

Gambia  studied  their  faces  long  and  thoughtfully  and  promised 
to  call  upon  them.  They  parted  to  meet  again. 

When  Edward  went  to  make  an  engagement  for  Mrs.  Montjoy  with 
Moreau,  the  great  authority  on  the  eye,  he  was  informed  that  the 
specialist  had  been  called  to  Russia  for  professional  services  in  the 
family  of  the  Czar,  and  would  not  return  before  a  date  then  a  week 
off.  The  ladies  accepted  the  delay  philosophically.  It  would  give 
them  time  to  see  something  of  Paris. 

And  see  it-  they  did.  To  Edward  it  was  familiar  in  every  feature. 
He  took  them  to  all  the  art  centers,  the  historical  points,  the  great 
cathedral,  the  environments  of  Malmaison  and  Versailles,  to  the  prom 
enades,  the  palaces  and  the  theaters.  This  last  feature  was  the  delight 
of  both.  For  the  dramatic  art  in  all  its  perfection  both  betrayed  a 
keen  relish,  and  just  then  Paris  was  at  its  gayest.  They  were  never 
jostled,  harassed,  nor  disappointed.  They  were  in  the  hands  of  an 
accomplished  cosmopolitan. 

To  Mary  the  scenes  were  full  of  never-ending  delight.  The  mother 
had  breathed  the  same  atmosphere  before,  but  to  Mary  all  was  novel 
and  beautiful. 

Throughout  all  Edward  maintained  the  sad,  quiet  dignity  peculiar 
to  him,  illumined  at  times  by  flashes  of  life,  as  he  saw  and  gloried  in 
the  happiness  of  the  girl  at  his  side. 

Then  came  Gambia!  Mary  had  gone  out  with  Edward,  for  a  walk, 
and  Mrs.  Montjoy  was  knitting  in  the  parlor  in  silent  reverie  when 
a  card  was  brought  in,  and  almost  immediately  the  sad,  beautiful  face 
of  the  singer  appeared  in  the  door. 

"Do  not  arise,  madame,"  she  said,  quickly,  coming  forward  upon 
seeing  the  eldery  lady  beginning  to  put  aside  her  knitting,  "nor  cease 
your  work.  I  ask  that  you  let  me  forget  we  are  almost  strangers  and 
will  sit  here  by  your  side.  You  have  not  seen  Moreau  yet?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  releasing  the  white  hand  that  had  clasped 
hers;  "he  is  to  return  to-day." 

"Then  he  will  soon  relieve  your  anxiety.  With  Moreau  everything 
is  possible." 


230  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  your  trust  is  not  misplaced;  success,  will  lift  a 
great  weight  from  my  family."  Gambia  was  silent,  thinking;  then 
•he  arose  and,  sinking  upon  the  little  footstool,  laid  her  arms  upon 
the  knees  of  her  hostess,  and  with  tearful  eyes  raised  to  her  face 
she  said: 

"Mrs.  Montjoy,  do  you  not  know  me?  Have  I  indeed  changed  so 
much?" 

The  needles  ceased  to  contend  and  the  work  slipped  from  the  smooth 
little  hands.  A  frightened  look  overspread  the  gentle  face. 

"Who  is  it  speaks?     Sometime  I  must  have  known  that  voice." 

"It  is  Marion  Evan."  The  visitor  bent  her  head  upon  her  own  arms 
and  gave  way  to  her  emotion.  Mrs.  Montjoy  had  repeated  the  name 
unconsciously  and  was  silent.  But  presently,  feeling  the  figure  bent 
before  her  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  its  emotion,  she  placed  both 
hands  upon  the  shapely  head  and  gently  stroked  its  beautiful  hair, 
now  lined  with  silver. 

"You  have  suffered,"  she  said  simply.  "Why  did  you  leave  us? 
Why  have  you  been  silent  all  these  years?" 

"For  my  father's  sake.  They  have  thought  me  cold,  heartless, 
abandoned.  I  have  crucified  my  heart  to  save  his."  She  spoke  with 
vehement  passion. 

"Hush,  my  child,"  said  the  elder  lady;  "you  must  calm  yourself. 
Tell  me  all;  let  me  help  you.  You  used  to  tell  me  all  your  troubles 
and  I  used  to  call  you  daughter  in  the  old  times.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Ah,  madame,  if  I  did  not  I  would  not  be  here  now.  Indeed  you 
were  always  kind  and  good  to  Marion." 

And  so,  living  over  the  old  days,  they  came  to  learn  again  each 
other's  heart  and  find  how  little  time  and  the  incidents  of  life  had 
changed  them.  And  sitting  there  beneath  the  sympathetic  touch  and 
eyes  of  her  lifetime  friend,  Gambia  told  her  story. 

"I  was  not  quite  17,  madame,  you  remember,  when  it  happened. 
How,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  thought  then  I'  must  have  been  born  for 
Gaspard  Levinge.  From  the  moment  I  saw  him,  the  violin  instructor 
in  our  institution,  I  loved  him.  His  voice,  his  music,  his  presence, 
without  effort  of  his,  deprived  me  of  any  resisting  power;'  I  did  not 
seek  to  resist.  I  advanced  in  my  art  until  its  perfection  charmed  him. 
I  had  often  seen  him  watching  me  with  a  sad  and  pensive  air  and 
and  he  once  told  me  that  my  face  recalled  a  very  dear  friend,  long 
dead.  I  sang  a  solo  in  a  concert;  he  led  the  orchestra;  1  sang  to  him. 
The  audience  thought  it  was  the  debutante  watching  her  director,  but 


THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA  231 

it  was  a  girl  of  17  singing  to  the  only  man  the  world  held  for  her. 
He  heard  and  knew. 

"From  that  day  we  loved;  before,  only  I  loved.  He  was  more  than 
double  my  age,  a  handsome  man,  with  a  divine  art;  and  I — well,  they 
called  me  pretty — made  him  love  me.  We  met  at  every  opportunity, 
and  when  opportunities  did  not  offer  we  made  them,  those  innocent, 
happy  trysts. 

"Love  is  blind  not  only  to  faults  but  to  all  the  world.  We  were 
discovered  and  he  was  blamed.  The  great  name  of  the  institution 
might  be  compromised — its  business  suffer.  He  resigned. 

"Then  came  the  terrible  misstep;  he  asked  me  to  go  with'  him  and 
I  consented.  We  should  have  gone  home;  he  wag  afraid  of  the  legal 
effects  of  marrying  a  minor,  and  so  we  went  the  other  way.  Not 
stopping  in  New  York  we  turned  northward,  away  from  the  revenge 
ful  south;  from  police  surveillance,  and  somewhere  we  were  married. 
I  heard  them  call  us  man  and  wife,  and  then  I  sank  again  into  my 
dream.  . 

"It  does  not  seem  possible  that  I  could  not  have  known  the  name 
of  the  place,  but  I  was  no  more  than  a  child  looking  from  a  car  win 
dow  and  taken  out  for  meals  here  and  there.  I  had  but  one  thought — 
my  husband. 

"We  went  to  Canada,  then  abroad.  Gaspard  had  saved  considerable 
money;  his  home  was  in  Silesia  and  thither  we  went;  and  that  long 
journey  was  the  happiest  honeymoon  a  woman  could  know." 

"I  spent  mine  in  Europe  wandering  from  point  to  point.  I  under 
stand,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  gently. 

"Oh,  you  do  understand !  We  reached  the  home  and  then  my  troubles 
began.  My  husband,  the  restraints  of  his  professional  engagement 
thrown  off,  fell  a  victim  to  dissipation  again.  He  had  left  his  country 
to  break  up  old  associations  and  this  habit. 

"His  people  were  high-class  but  poor.  He  was  Count  Levigne. 
Their  pride  was  boundless.  They  disliked  me  from  the  beginning. 
I  had  frustrated  the  plans  of  the  family,  whose  redemption  was  to 
come  from  Gaspard.  Innocent  though  I  was,  and  soon  demanding 
the  tenderness,  the  love,  the  gentleness  which  almost  every  woman 
receives  under  like  circumstances,  I  received  only!  coldness  and  petty 
persecution. 

"Soon  came  want;  not  tRe  want  of  mere  food,  but  of  clothing  and 
minor  comforts.  And  Gaspard  had  changed — he  who  should  have 
defended  me  left  me  to  defend  myself.  One  night  came  the  end.  He 


232  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

reproached  me — he  was  intoxicated — with  having  ruined  his  life  and 
his  prospects."  The  speaker  paused.  With  this  scene  had  come  an 
emotion  she  could  with  difficulty  control;  but,  calm  at  last,  she  con 
tinued  with  dignity: 

"The  daughter  of  Gen.  Albert  Evan  could  not  stand  that.  I  sold 
my  diamonds,  my  mother's  diamonds,  and  came  away.  I  had  resolved 
to  come  back  and  work  for  a  living  in  my  own  land  until  peace  could 
be  made  with  father.  At  that  time  I  did  not  know  the  trouble.  I 
found  out,  though. 

"Gaspard  came  to  his  senses  then  and  followed  me.  Madame,  can 
you  imagine  the  sorrow  of  the  coming  back?  But  a  few  months  before 
I  had  gone  over  the  same  route  the  happiest  woman  in  all  the  to  me 
beautiful  world,  and  now  I  was  the  most  miserable;  life  had  lost  its 
beauty ! 

"We  met  again — he  had  taken  a  shorter  way,  and,  guessing  my 
limited  knowledge  correctly,  by  watching  the  shipping  register  found 
ime.  But  all  eloquence  could  not  avail  then;  there  had  been  a  revul 
sion.  I  no  longer  loved  him.  He  would  never  reform;  he  would  work 
by  fits  and  starts  and  he  could  not  support  me.  At  that  time  he  had 
but  one  piece  of  property  in  the  world —  a  maginficient  Stradivarius 
violin.  The  sale  of  that  would  have  brought  many  thousand  francs  to 
spend,  but  on  that  one  thing  he  was  unchanging.  It  had  come  to  him 
by  many  generations  of  musicians.  They  transmitted  to  him  their 
divine  art  and  the  vehicle  of  its  expression.  A  suggestion  of  sale 
threw  him  into  the  most  violent  of  passions,  so  great  wasi  the  shock 
to  his  artistic  nature  and  fa.rr.ily  pride.  If  he  had  starved  to  death 
that  violin  would  have  been  found  by  his  side. 

"I  believe  it  was  this  heroism  in  his  character  that  touched  me  at 
last;  I  relented.  We  went  to  Paris  and  Gaspard  secured  employment. 
But,  alas,  I  had  not  been  mistaken.  I  was  soon  penniless  and  prac 
tically  abandoned.  I  had  no  longer  the  ability  to  do  what  I  should 
have  done  at  first;  I  could  not  go  home  for  want  of  means." 

"You  should  have  written  to  us." 

"I  would  have  starved  before  I  would  have  asked.  Had  you  known, 
had  you  offered,  I  would  have  received  it.  And  God  sent  me  a  friend, 
one  of  His  noblemen — the  last  in  all  the1,  world  of  whom  I  could  ask 
anything.  When  my  fortunes  were  at  their  lowest  ebb  John  Morgan 
came  back  into  my  life." 

"John  Morgan!" 

"He  asked  no  questions.    He  simply  did  all  that  was  necessary.  And 


THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA  233 

then  he  went  to  see  my  father.  I  had  written  him,  but  he  had  never 
replied;  he  went,  as  I  learned  afterward,  simply  as  a  man  of  business 
and  without  sentiment.  You  can  imagine  the  scene.  No  other  man 
witnessed  it.  It  was,  he  told  me,  long  and  stormy. 

"The  result  was  that  I  would  be  received  at  home  when  I  came  with 
proofs  of  my  marriage. 

"I  was  greatly  relieved  at  first;  I  had  only  to  find  my  husband  and 
get  them.  I  found  him  but  I  did  not  get'  them.  It  happened  to  be  a 
bad  time  to  approach  him.  Then  John  Morgan  tried,  and  that  was 
unfortunate.  In  my  despair  I  had  told  my  husband  of  that  prior  en 
gagement.  An  insane  jealousy  now  seized  him.  He  thought  it  was 
a  plot  to  recover  my  name  and  marry  me  to  Mr.  Morgan.  He  held 
the  key  to  the  situation  and  swore  that  in  action  for  divorce  he  would 
testify  there  had  been  no  marriage! 

"Then  we  went  forward  to  find  the  record.  We  never  found  it. 
If  years  of  search  and  great  expense  could  have  accomplished  it,  we 
would  have  succeeded.  It  was,  however,  a  fact;  I  remember  stand-  -'"\^ 
ing  before  the  officiating  officer  and  recalled  my  trembling  responses, 
but  that  was  all.  The  locality,  the  section,  whether  it  was  the  first 
or  second  day,  I  do  not  recall.  But,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  was  mar 
ried." 

She  became  passionate.     Her  companion  soothed  her  again. 

"Go  on,  my  child.     I  believe  you." 

"I  cannot  tell  you  a  part  of  this  sad  story;  I  have  not  been  perfectly 
open.  Some  day  I  will,  perhaps,  and  until  that  time  comes  I  ask  you 
to  keep  my  secret,  because  there  are  good  reasons  now  for  silence; 
you  will  appreciate  them  when  you  know.  Gaspard  was  left — our 
only  chance.  Mr.  Morgan  sought  him,  I  sought  him;  he  would  have 
given  him  any  sum  for  his  knowledge.  Gaspard  would  have  sold  it, 
we  thought;  want  would  have  made  him  sell,  but  Gaspard  had  van 
ished  as  if  death  itself  had  carried  him  off. 

"In  this  search  I  had  always  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Morgan,  and  at 
first  his  money  defrayed  all  expense;  but  shortly  afterward  he  in 
fluenced  a  leading  opera  master  to  give  me  a  chance,  and  I  sang  in 
Paris  as  Gambia,  for  the  first  time.  From  that  day  I  was  rich,  and 
Marion  Evan  disappeared  from  the  world. 

"Informed  weekly  of  home  affairs  and  my  dear  father,  my  separa 
tion  was  lessened  of  half  its  terrors.  But  year  after  year  that  un 
changing  friend  stood  by  me.  The  time  came  when  the  stern  face 
was  the  grandest  object)  on  which  my  eyes  could  rest.  There  was  no 


234  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

compact  between  us;  if  I  could  have  dissolved  the  marriage  tie  I 
would  have  accepted  him  and  been  happy.  But  Gambia  could  take 
no  chances  with  herself  nor  with  Gen.  Evan !  Divorce  could  only  have 
been  secured  by  three  months'  publication  of  notice  in  the  papers  and 
if  that  reached  Gaspard  his  terrible  answer  would  have  been  filed 
and  I  would  have  been  disgraced. 

"The  American  war  had  passed  and  then  came  the  French  war. 
And  still  no  news  from  Gaspard.  And  one  day  came  John  Morgan, 
with  the  proposition  that  ten  years  of  abandonment  gave  me  liberty, 
and  offered  me  his  hand — and  fortune.  But — there  were  reasons- 
there  were  reasons.  I  could  not.  He  received  my  answer  and  said 
simply:  'You  are  right!'  After  that  we  talked  no  more  upon  the 
subject. 

"Clew  after  clew  was  exhausted;  some  led  us  into  a  foreign  prison. 
I  sang  at  Christmas  to  the  convicts.  All  seemed  touched;  but  none 
was  overwhelmed;  Gaspard  was  not  among  them. 

"I  sang  upon  the  streets  of  Paris,  disguised ;  all  Paris  came  to  know 
and  hear  the  veiled  singer,'  whose  voice,  it  was  said,  equaled  the 
famous  Gambia's.  A  blind  violinist  accompanied  me.  We  man 
aged  it  skillfully.  He  met  me  at  a  new  place  every  evening,  and  we 
parted  at  a  new  place,  I  alighting  from  the  cab  we  always  took,  at 
some  unfrequented  place,  and  sending  him  home.  And  now,  madame, 
do  you  still  believe  in  God?" 

"Implicitly." 

"Then  tell  me  why,  when,  a  few  days  since,  I  was  called  by  your 
friend  Mr.  Morgan  to  the  bedside  of  Gaspard  Levigne,  the  old  music 
ian,  who  had  accompanied  me  on  the  streets  of  Paris,  why  was  it  that 
God  in  His  mercy  did  not  give  him  breath  to  enable  his  lips  to  answer 
my  pitiful  question;  why,  if  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  did  He  not " 

"Hush,  Marion!"  The  calm,  sweet  voice  of  the  elder  woman  rose 
above  the  excitement  and  anguish  of  the  singer.  "Hush,  my  child; 
you  have  trusted  too  little  in  Him !  God  is  great,  and  good  and  merci 
ful.  I  can  say  it  now;  I  will  say  it  when  His  shadows  fall  upon  my 
eyes  as  they  must  some  day." 

Awed  and  touched,  Gambia  looked  up  into  the  glorified  face  and  was 
silent. 

Neither  broke  that  stillness,,  but  as  they  waited  a  violent  step  was 
heard  without,  and  a  voice: 

"Infamous!  Infamous!"  Edward  rushed  into  the  room,  pale  and 
horrified,  his  bursting  heart  finding  relief  only  in  such  words. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH  235 

"What  is  it,  my  son — Edward!"  Mrs.  Montjoy  looked  upon  him  re 
proachfully. 

"I  am  accused  of  the  murder  of  Rita  Morgan!"  he  cried.  He  did 
not  see  Gambia,  who  had  drawn  back  from  between  the  two,  and  was 
looking  in  horror  at  hini  as  she  slowly  moved  toward  the  door. 

"You  accused,  Edward?  Impossible!  Why,  what  possible  mo 
tive " 

"Oh,  it  is  devilish!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  tore  the  American  paper 
into  shreds.  "Devilish!  First  I  was  called  her  son,  and  now  her 
murderer.  I  murdered  her  to  destroy  her  evidence,  is  the  charge!" 
The  white  face  of  Gambia  disappeared  through  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH. 

The  startling  news  had  been  discussed  in  all  its  phases  in  the  little 
parlor,  Mary  taking  no  part.  She  sat  with  averted  face  listening, 
but  ever  and  anon  when  Edward's  indignation  became  unrestrainable 
she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  She  did  not  know  that  the  paper  con 
tained  a  reference  to  her. 

The  astounding  revelation,  aside  from  the  accusation,  was  the 
wound.  Strange  that  he  had  not  discovered  it.  Who  could  have 
murdered  poor  Rita?  Positively  the  only  person  on  the  immediate 
premises  were  Virdow,  Evan  and  Gerald.  Virdow  was  of  course 
out  of  the  question,  and  the  others  were  in  the  room.  It  was  the  blow 
that  had  driven  her  head  through  the  glass.  What  enemy  could  the 
woman  have  had? 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  charge  could  amount  to  nothing; 
Evan  was  in  the  room  with  him;  the  general  would  surely  remember 
that. 

But  the  horror,  the  mortification — he,  Edward  Morgan,  charged 
with  murder,  and  the  center  of  a  scandal  in  which  the  name  of  Mary 
Montjoy  was  mentioned. 

The  passion  left  him;  depressed  and  sick  from  reaction  he  sat  alone 
in  the  little  parlor,  long  after  the  ladies  had  retired;  and  then  came 
the  climax.  A  cablegram  reached  the  house  and  was  handed  in  to 


236  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

him.     It  was  signed  by  Evan  and  read: 

"You  have  been  indicted.     Return." 

"Indicted,"  and  for  murder,  of  course.  It  gave  him  no  uneasi 
ness,  but  it  thrust  all  light  and  sweetness  from  life.  The  dream  was 
over.  There  could  now  be  no  search  for  Marion  Evan.  That  must 
pass,  and  with  it  hope. 

He  had  builded  upon  that  idea  castles  whose  minarets  wore  the 
colors  of  sunrise.  They  had  fallen  and  his  life  lay  among  the  ruins. 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  to  sleep,  but  the  gray  of  dawn  was 
already  over  the  city;  there  came  a  rumbling  vehicle  in  the  street; 
he  heard  the  sound  of  a  softly  closing  door — and  then  he  arose  and 
went  out.  The  early  morning  air  and  exercise  brought  back  his  physi 
cal  equipoise.  He  returned  for  breakfast,  with  a  good  appetite,  and 
though  grave,  was  tranquil  again. 

Neither  of  the  ladies  brought  up  the  painful  subject;  they  went 
with  him  to  see  the  learned  oculist  and  came  back  silent  and  oppressed. 
There  was  no  hope. 

The  diagnosis  corresponded  with  Dr.  Campbell's;  the  blind  eye 
might  have  been  saved  years  ago,  but  an  operation  would  not  have 
been  judicious  under  the  circumstances.  Continued  sight  must  de 
pend  upon  general  health. 

All  their  pleasures  and  hopes  buried  in  one  brief  day,  they  turned 
their  backs  on  Paris  and  started  homeward. 

Edward  saw  Gambia  no  more;  Mrs.  Montjoy  called  alone  and  said 
farewell.  The  next  day  they  sailed  from  Havre. 

In  New  York  Norton  met  them,  grave  and  embarrassed  for  once 
in  his  life,  and  assisted  in  their  hurried  departure  for  the  far  southern 
home.  There  was  no  exchange  of  views  between  the  two  men.  The 
paper  Norton  had  sent  was  acknowledged;  that  was  all.  The  subject 
was  too  painful  for  discussion.  And  so  they  arrived  in  Georgia. 
They  mere  met  by  the  Montjoy  carriage  at  a  little  station  near  the 
city.  It  was  the  11:20  p.  m.  train.  Gen.  Evan  was  waiting  for  Ed 
ward. 

The  handshaking  over,  they  rapidly  left  the  station.  Evan  had  se 
cured  from  the  sheriff  a  temporary  exemption  from  arrest  for  Ed 
ward,  but  it  was  understood  that  he  was  to  remain  out  of  sight.' 

They  arrived  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  the  Cedars,  having  only 
broached  commonplace  subjects,  traveling  incidents  and  the  like,  when 
a  negro  stopped  them.  In  the  distance  they  heard  a  hound  trailing. 

"Boss,  kin  air  one  er  you  gentlemen  gi'  me  a  match?    I  los'  my  light 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH  237 

back  yonder,  and  hit's  too  putty  er  night  ter  go  back  without  a  pos 
sum."  Evan  drew  rein.  He  was  a  born  sportsman  and  sympathetic. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  said;  "and — well,  I  can't,"  he  concluded,  having 
tried  all  pockets.  "Mr.  Morgan,  have  you  a  match?"  Edward  had 
one  and  one  only.  He  drew  all  the  little  articles  of  his  pockets  into 
his  hand  to  find  it. 

"Now,  hold,"  said  the  general;  "let's  light  our  cigars.  If  it's  to  be 
the  last  chance."  The  negro  touched  the  blazing  match  to  splinters 
of  lightwood,  as  the  southern  pitch  pine  is  called  when  dry,  and  in 
stantly  he  stood  in  a  circle  of  light,  his  features  revealed  in  every 
detail.  Edward  gazed  into  it  curiously.  Where  had  he  seen  that 
face?  It  came  back  like  the  lines  of  some  unpleasant  dream — the 
thick  lips,  the  flat  nose,  the  retreating  forehead,  full  eyes  and  heavy 
eyelids,  and  over  all  a  look  of  infinite  stupidity.  The  negro  had  fixed 
his  eyes  a  moment  upon  the  articles  in  Edward's  hand  and  stepped 
back  quickly.  But  he  recovered  himself  and  with  clumsy  thanks,  hold 
ing  up  his  flaming  torch,  went  away,  leaving  only  the  uncertain 
shadows  dancing  across  the  road. 

At  home  Gen.  Evan  threw  aside  all  reserve.  He  drew  their  chairs 
up  into  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  porch. 

"I  have  some  matters  to  talk  over,"  he  said,  "and  our  time  is  short. 
Yours  is  not  a  bailable  case  and  we  must  have  a  speedy  trial.  The 
law  winks  at  your  freedom  to-night;  it  will  not  do  to  compromise  our 
friends  in  the  court  house  by  unnecessary  delay.  Edward,  where 
was  I  when  you  discovered  the  body  of  the  woman,  Rita  Morgan?" 
Edward  looked  through  the  darkness  at  his  friend,  who  was  gazing 
straight  ahead. 

"You  were  standing  by  Gerald's  bed,  looking  upon  him." 

"How  did  you  discover  her?  It  never  occurred1  to  me  to  ask;  were 
you  not  in  the  room  also?" 

"I  certainly  was.  She  broke  the  glass  by  pressing  against  it,  as  I 
thought  at  the  time,  but  now  I  see  she  was  struck.  I  rushed  out  and 
picked  her  up,  and  you  came  when  I  called. 

"Exactly.    And  you  both  talked  loudly  out  there." 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because,"  said  Evan,  slowly,  "therein  lies  the  defect  in  our  defense. 
I  cannot  swear  you  were  in  the  room  upon  my  own  knowledge.  I  had 
been  astounded  by  the  likeness  of  Gerald  to  those  who  had  been  dear 
to  me — I  was  absorbed.  Then  I  heard  you  cry  out,  and  found  you  in 
the  yard."  There  was  a  long  pause.  Edward's  heart  began  to  beat 


238  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

with  sledge-hammer  violence. 

"Then,"  he  said  with  a  strange  voice,  "as  the  case  would  be  pre 
sented,  I  was  found  with  the  body  of  the  woman;  she  had  been  mur 
dered  and  I  was  the  only  one  who  had  a  motive.  Is  that  it?" 

"That  is  it."    The  young  man  arose  and  walked  the  porch  in  silence. 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  said  Gen.  Evan.  "If  it  were,  I  would  have 
cabled  you  to  go  east  from  Paris.  There  is  more.  Is  there  any  one 
on  earth  who  could  be  interested  in  your  disgrace  or  death?" 

"None  that  I  know  of — that  is,  well,  no;  none  that  I  know  of.  You 
remember  Royson;  we  fought  that  out.  He  cannot  cherish  enmity 
against  a  man  who)  fought  him  in  an  open  field." 

"Perhaps  you  are  mistaken. 

"From  what  do  you  speak?" 

"You  had  been  in  Paris  but  a  few  days  when  one  night  as  I  sat 
here  your  friend  Barksdale — great  man  that  Barksdale;  a  trifle  heady 
and  confident,  but  true  as  steel— Barksdale  came  flying  on  his  sorrel 
up  the  avenue  and  landed  here. 

"  'General,'  said  he,'  I  have  discovered  the  most  damnable  plot  that 
a  man  ever  faced.  All  this  scandal  about  Morgan  is  not  newspaper 
sensation  as  you  suppose,  it  is  the  first  step  in  a  great  tragedy.'  And 
then  he  went  on  to  tell  me  that  Gerald  had  invaded  his  room  and 
shown  him  pictures  of  an  open  grave,  the  face  of  a  dead  woman  and 
also  the  face  of  the  man  who  opened  that  grave,  drawn  with  every 
detail  perfect.  Gerald  declared  that  he  witnessed  the  disinterment 
and  drew  the  scene  from  memory " 

"Hold  a  minute,"  said  Edward;  he  was  now  on  his  feet,  his  hand 
uplifted  to  begin  a  statement;  "and  then — and  then " 

"The  object  of  that  disinterment  was  to  inflict  the  false  wound  and 
charge  you  with  murder." 

"And  the  man  who  did  it — who  made  that  wound — was  the  man  who 
begged  a  match,  from  us  on  the  road.  I  will  swear  it,  if  art  is  true. 
I  have  seen  the  picture."  Evan  paused  a  moment  to  take  in  the 
vital  fact.  Then  there  rung  out  from  him  a  half-shout: 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  The  chairs  that  stood  between  him 
and  the  door  were  simply  hurled  out  of  the  way.  His  stentorian 
voice  called  for  his  factotum.  "John!"  and  John  did  not  wait  to  dress, 
but  came. 

"Get  my  horse  and  a  mule  saddled  and  bring  that  puppy  Carlo. 
Quick,  John,  quick!"  John  fled  toward  the  stable.  "Edward,  we  win 
if  we  get  that  negro — we  win!"  he  exclaimed,  coming  back  through 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH  239 

the  wreck  of  his  furniture. 

"But  why  should  the  negro  have  disinterred  the  body  and  have 
made  a  wound  upon  her  head?  There  can  be  no  motive." 

"Heavens,  man,  no  motive!  Do  you  know  that  you  have  come 
between  two  men  an4  Mary^Morgan?" 

"I  have  never  suspected  if,  even." 

"Two  have  sought  her  with  all  the  energy  of  manhood,"  said  Evan. 
"Two  men  as  different  as  the  east  from  the  west.  Royson  hates  you 
and  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  effect  your  ruin;  Barksdale  loves 
her  and  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  protect  her  happiness !  There 
you  have  it  all.  Only  one  man  in  the  world  could  have  put  that  black 
devil  up  to  his  infamous  deed — and  that  man  is  Royson.  Only  one 
man  in  the  world  could  have  grasped  the  situation  and  have  read  the 
riddle  correctly- — and  that  man  is  Barksdale."  Edward  was  dazed. 
Gradually  the  depth  and  villainy  of  the  conspiracy  grew  clear. 

"But  to  prove  it " 

"The  negro." 

"Will  he  testify?" 

"Will  he?  If  I  get  my  hands  on  him,  young  man,  he  will  testify! 
Or  he  will  hang  by  the  neck  from  a  limb  as  his  possum  hangs  by  the 
tail." 

"You  propose  to  capture  him?" 

"I  am  going  to  capture  him."  He  disappeared  in  the  house  and 
when  he  came  out  he  had  on  his  army  belt,  with  sword  and  pistol. 
The  mounts  were  at  the  door  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Edward 
was  astride  a  mule.  To  his  surprise  the  animal  bounded  along  after 
the  gray  horse,  with  a  smooth  and  even  gait,  and  kept  up  without 
difficulty. 

Evan  rode  as  a  cavalryman  and  carried  across  his  saddle  the  puppy. 
With  unerring  skill  he  halted  at  the  exact  spot  where  the  matchh  had 
been  struck,  and  lowered  the  dog  gently  to  the  ground.  The  intelli 
gent,  excited  animal  at  once  took  up  the  trail  of  man  or  dogs,  and 
opening  loudly  glided  into  the  darkness.  They  followed. 

Several  miles  had  been  covered,  when  they  saw  in  the  distance  a 
glimmer  of  light  among  the  trees  and  Evan  drew  rein. 

"It  will  not  do,"  he  said,  "to  ride  upon  him.  At  the  sound  of  horses' 
feet  he  will  extinguish  his  light  and  escape.  The  dog,  he  will  sup 
pose,  is  a  stray  one  led  off  by  his  own  and  will  not  alarm  him."  They 
tied  their  animals  and  pressed  on. 

The  dog  ahead  had  openel  and  Carlo's  voice  could  be  heard  with 


240  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

the  rest,  as  they  trailed  the  fleeing  possum.  The  general  was  ex 
hausted.  "I  can't  do  it,  Edward,  my  boy — go  on.  I  will  follow  as 
fast  as  possible."  Without  a  word  Edward  obeyed.  The  dogs  were 
now  furious,  the  man  himself  running.  In  the  din  and  clamor  he 
could  hear  nothing  of  pursuit.  The  first  intimation  he  had  of  danger 
was  a  grip  on  his  collar  and  a  man's  voice  exclaiming  excitedly: 

"Halt!     You  are  my  prisoner!" 

The  torch  fell  to  the  ground  and  lay  sputtering.  The  negro  was 
terrified  for  the  moment,  but  his  quick  eye  pierced  the  gloom  and 
measured  his  antagonist.  He  made  a  fierce  effort  to  break  away,  and 
failing,  threw  himself  with  immense  force  upon  Edward.  Then  began 
a  frightful  struggle.  No  word  was  spoken.  The  negro  was  power 
ful,  but  the  white  man  was  inspired  by  a  memory  and  consciousness 
of  his  wrongs.  They  fell  and  writhed,  and  rose  and  fell  again.  Slip 
pery  Dick  had  got  his  hand  upon  Edward's  throat.  Suddenly  his 
grasp  relaxed  and  he  lay  with  the  white  of  his  eyes  rolled  upward. 
The  muzzle  of  a  cavalry  pistol  was  against  his  head  and  the  stern 
face  of  the  veteran  was  above  him. 

"Get  up!"  said  the  general,  briefly. 

"Certainly,  boss,"  was  the  reply,  and  breathless  the  two  men  arose. 

The  defense  had  its  witness! 

"Ef  he  had'n  conjured  me,"  said  the  negro  doggedly,  "he  couldn't 
'er  done  it."  He  had  recognized  among  the  little  things  that  Edward 
drew  from  his  pocket  on  the  road  the  voodoo's  charm. 

Edward,  breathless,  took  up  the  torch  and  looked  into  Dick's  count 
enance.  "I  am  not  mistaken,  general,  this  is  the  man." 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
WHAT  THE  SHEET  HID. 

Slippery  Dick  was  puzzled  as  well  as  frightened.  He  knew  Gen. 
Evan  by  sight,  and  his  terror  lost  some  of  its  wildness;  the  general 
was  not  likely  to  be  out  upon  a  lynching  expedition.  But  for  what 
was  he  wanted?  He  could  not  protest  until  he  knew  that,  and  in  his 
past  were  many  dark  deeds,  for  which  somebody  was  wanted.  So  he 
was  silent. 


WHAT  THE  SHEET  HID  241 

His  attention  was  chiefly  directed  to  Edward;  he  could  not  account 
for  him,  nor  could  he  remember  to  have  seen  him.  Royson  had  long 
since  trained  him  to  silence;  most  men  convict  themselves  while 
under  arrest. 

Evan  stood  in  deep  thought,  but  presently  he  prepared  for  action. 

"What  is  your  name,  boy?"    The  negro  answered  promptly: 

"Dick,  sah." 

"Dick  who?" 

"Just  Dick,  sah." 

"Your  other  name?" 

"Slippery  Dick."    The  general  was  interested  instantly. 

"Oh,  Slippery  Dick."  The  career  of  the  notorious  negro  was  par 
tially  known  to  him.  Dick  had  been  the  reporter's  friend  for  many 
years  and  in  dull  times  more  than  the  truth  had  been  told  of  Slippery 
Dick.  "Well,  this  begins  to  look  probable,  Edward;  I  begin  to  think 
you  may  be  right." 

"I  am  not  mistaken,  general.    If  there  is  a  mistake,  it  is  not  mine." 

"What  dey  want  me  for,  Marse  Evan?     I  ain't  done  nothin'." 

"A  house  has  been  broken  into,  Dick,  and  you  are  the  man  who  did 
it." 

"Who,  me?  Fo'  Gawd,  Marse  Evan,  I  ain't  broke  inter  no  man's 
house.  It  warn't  me — no  sah,  no  sah." 

"We  will  see  about  that.  Now  I  will  give  you  your  choice,  Dick; 
you  can  go  with  me,  Gen.  Evan  and  I  will  protect  you.  If  the  person 
who  accuses  you  says  you  are  innocent  I  will  turn  you  loose;  if  you 
are  not  willing  to  go  there  I  will  take  you  to  jail;  but,  willing  or  un 
willing,  if  you  make  a  motion  to  escape,  I  will  put  a  bullet  through 
you  before  you  can  take  three  steps." 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Marse  Evan;  I  ain't  de  man.  I'll  go  whar  you 
want  me  to  go." 

"Get  your  dogs  together  and  take  the  road  to  town.  I  will  show 
you  when  we  get  there."  They  went  with  him  to  where  his  dogs, 
great  and  small,  were  loudly  baying  at  the  root  of  a  small  persimmon 
tree.  Dick  looked  up  wistfully. 

"Marse  Evan,  deir  he  sots;  you  don't  spect  me  ter  leave  dat  possum 
up  dere?"  The  lod  man  laughed  silently. 

"The  ruling  passion  strong  in  death,"  he  quoted  to  Edward,  and  then 
sternly  to  Dick:  "Get  him  and  be  quick  about  it."  A  moment  more 
and  they  were  on  the  way  to  the  horses. 

"I  had  an  object,"  said  Evan   ,  "in  permitting  this.     As  we  pass 


242  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

through  the  city  we  present  the  appearance  of  a  hunting  party.  Turn 
up  your  coat  collar  and  turn  down  your  hat  to  avoid  the  possibility  of 
recognition." 

They  reached  the  city,  passed  through  the  deserted  streets,  the 
negro  carrying  his  'possum  and  surrounded  by  the  dogs  preceding  the 
riders,  and,  without  attracting  more  than  the  careless  notice  of  a 
policeman  or  two,  they  reached  the  limits  beyond. 

Still  Dick  was  not  suspicious;  the  road  was  his  own  way  home;  but 
when  finally  he  was  ordered  to  turn  up  the  long  route  to  Ilexhurst, 
he  stopped.  This  was  anticipated;  the  general  spurted  his  horse 
almost  against  him. 

"Go  on!"  he  said,  sternly,  "or  by  the  Eternal  you  are  a  dead  man! 
Edward,  if  he  makes  a  break,  you  have  the  ex " 

"Marse  Evan,  you  said  breakin'  in  'er  house."    Dick  still  hesitated. 

"I  did;  but  it  was  the  house  of  the  dead." 

The  'possum  came  suddenly  to  the  ground,  and  away  went  Dick 
into  an  open  field,  the  expectation  of  a  bullet  lending  speed  to  his  legs. 
But  he  was  not  in  the  slightest  danger  from  bullets;  he  was  the  last 
man,  almost,  that  either  of  his  captors  would  have  slain,  nor  was  it 
necessary.  The  great  roan  came  thundering  upon  him;  he  lifted  his 
arm  to  ward  off  the  expected  blow  and  looked  up  terrified.  The  next 
instant  a  hand  was  on  his  coat  collar,  andf  he  was  lifted  off  his  feet. 
Dragging  his  prisoner  into  the  road,  Evan  held  his  pistol  over  his  wet 
forehead,  while,  with  the  rein,  Edward  lashed  his  elbows  behind  his 
back.  The  dogs  were  fighting  over  the  remains  of  the  unfortunate 
'possum.  They  left  them,  there. 

The  three  men  arrived  at  Ilexhurst  thoroughly  tired;  the  white  men 
more  so  than  the  negro.  Tying  their  animals,  Edward  led  the  may 
around  to  the  glass-room,  where  a  light  was  burning,  but  to  his  di»- 
appointment  on  entering  he  found  no  occupant.  Slippery  Dick  was 
placed  in  a  chair  and  the  door  locked.  Evan  stood  guard  over  him, 
while  Edward  searched  the  house.  The  wing-room  was  dark  and 
Gerald  was  not  to  be  found.  From  the  door  of  the  professor's  room 
came  the  cadenced  breathing  of  a  profound  sleeper.  Returning,  Ed 
ward  communicated  these  facts  to  his  companion.  They  discussed 
the  situation. 

Evan,  oppressed  by  the  memory  of  his  last  two  visits  to  these  scenes, 
was  silent  and  distrait.  The  eyes  of  the  negro  were  moving  restlessly 
from  point  to  point,  taking  in  every  detail  of  his  surroundings.  The 
scene,  the  hour,  the  situation  and  the  memory  of  that  shriveled  face 


WHAT  THE  SHEET  HID  243 

in  its  coffin  all  combined  to  reduce  Dick  to  a  state  of  abject  terror. 
Had  he  not  been  tied  he  would  have  plunged  through  the  glass  into 
the  night;  the  pistol  in  the  hands  of  the  old  man  standing  over  him 
would  have  been  forgotten. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Edward  went  into  the  wing-room  and  light 
ed  the  lamps  preparatory  to  making  better  arrangements  for  all 
parties.  Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  lounge.  Extended  upon  It 
was  a  form  outlined  through  a  sheet  that  covered  it  from  head  to 
foot.  So  still,  so  immovable  and  breathless  it  seemed,  he  drew  back 
in  horror.  An  indefinable  fear  seized  him.  White,  with  unexpressed 
horror,  he  stood  in  the  door  of  the  glass-room  and  beckoned  to  the 
general.  The  silence  of  his  appearance,  the  inexpressible  terror  that 
shone  in  his  face  and  manner,  sent  a  thrill  to  the  old  man's  heart 
and  set  the  negro  trembling. 

Driving  the  negro  before  him,  Evan  entered.  At  sight  of  the  cover 
ed  form  Dick  made  a  violent  effort  to  break  away,  but,  with  nerves 
now  at  their  highest  tension  and  muscles  drawn  responsive,  the  gen 
eral  successfully  resisted.  Enraged  at  last  he  stilled  his  captive  by  a 
savage  blow  with  his  weapon. 

Edward  now  approached  the  apparition  and  lifted  the  cloth.  Pre 
pared  as  he  was  for  the  worst,  he  could  not  restrain  the  cry  of  hor 
ror  that  rose  to  his  lips.  Before  him  was  the  face  of  Gerald,  white 
with  the  hue  of  death,  the  long  lashes  drooped  over  half-closed  eyes, 
the  black  hair  drawn  back  from  the  white  forehead  and  clustering 
about  his  neck  and  shoulders.  He  fell  almost  fainting  against  the 
outstretched  arm  of  his  friend,  who,  pale  and  shocked,  stood  with 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  fatal  beauty  of  the  dead  face. 

It  was  but  an  instant;  then  the  general  was  jerked  with  irresistible 
force  and  fell  backward  into  the  room,  Edward  going  nearly  pros 
trate  over  him.  There  was  the  sound  of  shattered  glass  and  the  negro 
was  gone. 

Stunned  and  hurt,  the  old  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  rushed  to  the 
glass-room.  Then  a  pain  seized  him;  he  drew  his  bruised  limb  from 
the  floor  and  caught  the  lintel. 

"Stop  that  man!  Stop  that  man!"  he  said  in  a  stentorian  voice; 
"he  is  your  only  witness  now!"  Edward  looked  into  his  face  a  mo 
ment  and  comprehended.  For  the  third  time  that  night  he  plunged 
into  the  darkness  after  Slippery  Dick.  But  where?  Carlo  was  telling! 
Down  the  hill  his  shrill  voice  was  breaking  the  night.  Abandoned  by 
the  nogro's  dogs  accustomed  to  seek  their  home  and  that  not  far  awaj , 


244  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

he  had  followed  the  master's  footsteps  with  unerring  instinct  and 
whined  about  the  glass  door.  The  bursting  glass,  the  fleeing  form  of 
a  strange  negro,  were  enough  for  his  excitable  nature;  he  gave  voice 
and  took  the  trail. 

The  desperate  effort  of  the  negro  might  have  suceeded,  but  the 
human  arms  were  made  for  many  things;  when  a  man  stumbles  he 
needs  them  in  the  air  and  over-head  or  extended.  Slipery  Dick  went 
down  with  a  crash  in  a  mass  of  blackberry  bushes,  and  when  Edward 
reached  him  he  was  kicking  wildly  at  the  excited  puppy,  prevented 
from  rising  by  his  efforts  and  his  bonds.  The  excited  and  enraged 
white  man  dragged  him  out  of  the  bushes  by  his  collar  and  brought 
reason  to  her  throne  by  savege  kicks.  The  prisoner  gave  up  and 
begged  for  mercy. 

He  was  marched  back,  all  breathless,  to  the  general,  who  had  limp 
ed  to  the  gate  to  meet  him. 

Edward  was  now  excited  beyond  control;  he  forced  the  prisoner, 
shivering  with  horror,  into  the  presence  of  the  corpse,  and  with  the 
axe  in  hr.nd  confronted  him. 

"You  infamous  villain!"  he  cried;  "tell  me  here,  in  the  presence 
of  my  dead  friend,  who  it)  was  that  put  you  up  to  opening  the  grave 
of  Rita  Morgan  and  breaking  her  skull,  or  I  will  brain  you!  You  have 
ten  seconds  to  speak!"  He  meant  it,  and  the  axe  flashed  in  the  air. 
Gen.  Evan  caught  the  vpraised  arm. 

"Softly,  softly,  Edward;  this  won't  do;  this  won't  do!  You  defeat 
your  own  purpose!"  It  was  timely;  the  blow  might  have  descended, 
for  the  reckless  man  was  in  earnest,  and  the  negro  was  by  this  time 
dumb. 

"Dick,"  said  the  general,  "I  promised  to  protect  you  on  conditions, 
and  I  will.  But  you  have  done  this  gentleman  an  injury  and  endan 
gered  his  life.  You  opened  Rita  Morgan's  grave  and  broke  her  skull 
— an  act  for  which  the  law  has  no  adequate  punishment;  but  my  young 
friend  here  is  desperate.  You  can  save  yourself  but  I  cannot  save  you 
except  over  my  dead  body.  If  you  refuse  I  will  stand  aside,  and  when 
I  do  you  are  a  dead  man."  He  was  during  this  hurried  speech  still 
struggling  with  the  young  man. 

"I'll  tell,  Marse  Evan!     Hold  'im.    I'll  tell!" 

"Who,  then?"  said  Edward,  white  with  his  passion;  "who  was  the 
infamous  villain  that  paid  you  for  the  deed?" 

"Mr.  Royson,  Mr.  Royson,  he  hired  me."  The  men  looked  at  each 
other.  A  revulsion  came  over  Edward;  a  horror,  a  hatred  of  the 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS  245 

human  race,  of  anything  that  bore  the  shape  of  man — but  no;  the  kind, 
sad  face  of  the  old  gentleman  was  beaming  in  triumph  upon  him. 

And  then  from  somewhere  into  the  scene  came  the  half-dressed 
form  of  Virdow,  his  face  careworn  and  weary,  amazed  and  alarmed. 

Virdow  wrote  the  confession  in  all  its  details,  and  the  general  wit 
nessed  the  rude  cross  made  by  the  trembling  hand  of  the  negro.  And 
then  they  stood  sorrowful  and  silent  before  the  still,  dead  face  of 
Gerald  Morgan! 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 
ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS. 

The  discovery  of  Gerald's  death  necessitated  a  change  of  plans. 
The  concealment  of  Slippery  Dick  and  Edward  must  necessarily  be 
accomplished  at  Ilexhurst.  There  were  funeral  arrangements  to  be 
imade,  the  property  cared  for  and  Virdow  to  be  rescued  from  his  sol 
itary  and  embarrassing  position.  Moreover,  the  gray  dawn  was  on 
ere  the  confession  was  written,  and  Virdow  had  briefly  explained  the 
circumstances  of  Gerald's  death.  Exhausted  by  excitement  and  anxiety 
and  the  depression  of  grief,  he  went  to  his  room  and  brought  Edward 
a  sealed  packet  which  had  been  written  and  addressed  to  him  during 
the  early  hours  of  the  night. 

"You  will  find  it  all  there,"  he  said;  "I  cannot  talk  upon  it."  He 
went  a  moment  to  look  upon  the  face  of  his  friend  and  then,  with  a 
single  pathetic  gesture,  turned  and  left  them. 

One  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  former  owner  of  Ilexhurst  had  been 
a  granite  smoke-house,  not  only  burglar  and  fireproof  but  cyclone 
proof,  and  with  its  oaken  door  it  constituted  a  formidable  jail. 

With  food  and  water,  Dick,  freed  of  his  bonds,  was  ushered  into 
this  building,  the  small  vents  in  the  high  roof  affording  enough  light 
for  most  purposes.  A  messenger  was  then  dispatched  for  Barksdale 
and  Edward  locked  himself  away  from  sight  of  chance  callers  in  his 
upper  room.  The  general,  thoughtful  and  weary,  sat  by  the  dead  man. 

The  document  that  Virdow  had  prepared  was  written  in  German. 
"When  your  eye  reads  these  lines,  you  will  be  grieved  beyond  endur 
ance  ;  Gerald  is  no  more !  He  was  killed  to-night  by  a  flash  of  lightning 


246  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  his  death  was  instantaneous.  I  am  alone,  heartbroken  and  utterly 
wretched.  Innocent  of  any  responsibility  in  this  horrible  tragedy  I 
was  yet  the  cause,  since  it  was  while  submitting  to  some  experiment! 
of  mine  that  he  received  his  death  stroke.  I  myself  received  a  fright 
ful  electric  shock,  but  it  now  amounts  to  nothing.  I  would  to  God 
that  I  and  not  he  had  received  the  full  force  of  the  discharge.  He 
might  have  been  of  vast  service  to  science,  but  my  work  is  little  and 
now  well-nigh  finished. 

"Gerald  was  kneeling  under  a  steel  disk,  in  the  glass-room,  you  will 
remember  where  we  began  our  sound  experiments,  and  I  did  not  know 
that  the  steel  wire  which  suspended  it  ran  up  and  ended  near  a  metal 
strip,  along  the  ridge  beam  of  the  room.  We  had  just  begun  our  in 
vestigation,  when  the  flash  descended  and  he  fell  dead. 

"At  this  writing  I  am  here  under  peculiar  circumstances ;  the  butler 
who  came  to  my  call  when  I  recovered  consciousness  assisted  me  in 
the  attempt  at  resuscitation  of  Gerald,  but  without  any  measure  of 
success.  He  then  succeeded  in  getting  one  or  two  of  the  old  negroes 
and  a  doctor.  The  latter  declared  life  extinct.  There  was  no  dis 
figurement — only  a  black  spot  in  the  crown  of  the  head  and  a  dark 
line  down  the  spine,  where  the  electric  fluid  had  passed.  That  was 
all." 

Edward  ceased  to  read;  his  chin  sank  upon  his  breast  and  the  lines 
slipped  from  his  unfocused  eyes.  The  dark  line  down  the  spinel  Hit 
heart  leaped  fiercely  and  he  lifted  his  face  with  a  new  light  in  his 
eyes.  For  a  moment  it  was  radiant;  then  shame  bowed  his  head  again. 
He  laid  aside  the  paper  and  gave  himself  up  to  thought,  from  time  to 
time  pacing  the  room.  In  these  words  lay  emancipation.  He  resumed 
the  reading: 

"We  arranged  the  body  on  the  lounge  and  determined  to  wait  un 
til  morning  to  send  for  the  coroner  and  undertaker,  but  one  by  one 
your  negroes  disappeared.  They  could  not  seem  to  withstand  their 
superstition,  the  butler  told  me,  and  as  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
I  did  not  worry.  I  came  here  to  the  library  to  write,  and  when  I  re 
turned,  the  butler,  too,  was  gone.  They  are  a  strange  people.  I  sup 
pose  I  will  see  none  of  them  until  morning,  but  it  does  not  matter; 
my  poor  friend  is  far  beyond  the  reach  of  attention.  His  rare  mind 
has  become  a  part  of  cosmos;  its  relative  situation  is  our  mystery. 

"I  will,  now,  before  giving  you  a  minute  description  of  our  last 
evening  together,  commit  for  your  eye  my  conclusions  as  to  some  of 
the  phenomena  and  facts  you  have  observed.  I  am  satisfied  as  far 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS  247 

as  Gerald's  origin  is  concerned,  that  he  is  either  the  son  of  the  woman 
Rita  or  that  they  are  in  some  way  connected  by  ties  of  blood.  In 
either  case  the  similarity  of  their  profiles  would  be  accounted  for.  No 
matter  how  remote  the  connection,  nothing  is  so  common  as  this  re 
appearance  of  tribal  features  in  families.  The  woman,  you  told  me, 
claimed  him  as  her  child,  but  silently  waived  that  claim  for  his  sake. 
I  say  to  you  that)  a  mother's  instinct  is  based  upon  something  deeper 
than  mere  fancy,  and  that  intuitions  are  so  nearly  correct  that  I  class 
them  as  the  nearest  approach  to  mind  memory  to  be  observed. 

"The  likeness  of  his  full  face  to  the  picture  of  the  girl  you  call  Mar 
ion  Evan  may  be  the  result  of  influences  exerted  at  birth.  Do  you 
remember  the  fragmentary  manuscript?  If  that  is  a  history,  I  am 
of  the  opinion  that  it  is  explanation  enough.  At  any  rate,  the  pro 
file  is  a  stronger  evidence  the  other  way. 

"The  reproduction  of  the  storm  scene  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
incidents  I  have  ever  known,  but  it  is  not  proof  that  he  inherited  it 
as  a  memory.  It  is  a  picture  forcibly  projected  upon  his  imagination 
by  the  author  of  the  fragment — and  in  my  opinion  he  had  read  that 
fragment.  It  came  to  him  as  a  revelation,  completing  the  gap.  I 
am  sure  that  from  the  day  that  he  read  it  he  was  for  long  periods 
convinced  that  he  was  the  son  of  Rita  Morgan;  that  she  had  not  lied 
to  him.  In  this  I  am  confirmed  by  the  fact  that  as  she  lay  dead  he 
bent  above  her  face  and  called  her  'mother'.  I  am  just  as  well  assured 
that  he  had  no  memory  of  the  origin  of  that  picture;  no  memory,  in 
fact,  of  having  read  the  paper.  This  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but 
any  one  who  has  had  the  care  of  victims  of  opium  will  accept  the 
proposition  as  likely. 

"The  drawing  of  the  woman's  face  was  simple.  His  hope  had  been 
to  find  himself  the  son  of  Marion  Evan;  his  dreams  were  full  of  her. 
He  had  seen  the  little  picture;  his  work  was  an  idealized  copy,  but 
it  must  be  admitted  a  marvelous  work.  Still  the  powers  of  concen 
tration  in  this  man  exceeded  the  powers  of  any  one  I  have  ever  met. 

"And  that  brings  me  to  what  was  the  most  wonderful  demonstration 
he  gave  us.  Edward,  I  have  divined  your  secret,  although  you  have 
never  told  it.  When  you  went  to  secure  for  me  the  note  of  the  water 
fall,  the  home  note,  you  were  accompanied  by  your  friend  Mary.  I 
will  stake  my  reputation  upon  it.  It  is  true  because  it  is  obliged  to 
be  true.  When  you  played  for  us  you  had  her  in  your  mind,  a  vivid 
picture,  and  Gerald  drew  it.  It  was  a  case  of  pure  thought  trans 
ference — a  transference  of  a  mental  conception,  line  for  line.  Ger- 


248  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

aid  received  his  conception  from  you  upon  the  vibrating  air.  To  me 
it  was  a  demonstration  worth'  my  whole  journey  to  America. 

"And  here  let  me  add,  as  another  proof  of  the  sympathetic  chord 
between  you,  that  Gerald  himself  had  learned  to  love  the  same  woman. 
You  gave  him  that,  my  young  friend,  with  the  picture. 

"You  have  by  this  time  been  made  acquainted  with  the  terrible  ac 
cusation  against  you — false  and  infamous.  There  will  be  little  trouble 
in  clearing  yourself,  but  oh,  what  agony  to  your  sensitive  nature!  I 
tried  to  keep  the  matter  from  Gerald,  as  I  did  the  inquest  by  keeping 
him  busy  with  investigations;  but  a  paper  fell  into  his  hands  and  his 
excitement  was  frightful.  Evading  me  he  disappeared  from  the  pre 
mises  one  evening,  but  while  I  was  searching  for  him  he  came  to  the 
house  in  a  carriage,  bringing  the  picture  of  that  repulsive  negro, 
which  you  will  remember.  Since  then  he  has  been  more  calm.  Mr. 
Barksdale,  your  friend,  I  suppose,  was  with  him  once  or  twice. 

"And  now  I  come  to  this,  the  last  night  of  our  association  upon 
earth;  the  night  that  has  parted  us  and  rolled  between  us  the  mystery 
across  which  our  voices  cannot  reach  nor  our  ears  hear. 

"Gerald  had  long  since  been  satisfied  with  the  ability  of  living  sub 
stance  to  hold  a  photograph,  and  convinced  that  these  photographs 
lie  dormant,  so  to  speak,  somewhere  in  our  consciousness  until  awak 
ened  again — that  is,  until  made  vivid.  He  was  proceeding  carefully 
toward  the  proposition  that  a  complete  memory  could  be  inherited, 
and  in  the  second  generation  or  even  further  removed;  you  know  his 
theory.  There  were  intermediate  propositions  that  needed  confirma 
tion.  When  forms  and  scenes  come  to  the  mind  of  the  author,  pure 
harmonies  of  color  to  that  of  the  artist,  sweet  co-ordinations  of  harmo 
nies  to  the  musician,  whence  come  they?  Where  is  the  thread  of  con 
nection?  Most  men  locate  the  seat  of  their  consciousness  at  the  top  of 
the  head ;  they  seem  to  think  in  that  spot.  And  strange,  is  it  not,  that 
when  life  passes  out  and  all  the  beautiful  structure  of  the  body  claimed 
by  the  frost  of  death,  that  heat  lingers  longest  at  that  point!  It  is 
material  in  this  letter,  because  explaining  Gerald's  idea.  He  wished 
me  to  subject  him  to  the  finest  vibrations  at  that  point. 

"The  experiment  was  made  with  a  new  apparatus,  which  had  been 
hung  in  place  of  the  first  in  the  glass-room;  or,  rather,  to  this  we 
made  an  addition.  A  thin  steel  plate  was  fixed  to  the  floor,  directly 
under  the  wire  and  elevated  upon  a  small  steel  rod.  Gerald  insisted 
that  as  the  drum  and  membrane  I  used  made  the  shapes  we  secured 
a  new  experiment  should  be  tried,  with  simple  vibrations.  So  we  hung 


^ 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS  249 

in  its  place  a  steel  disk  with  a  small  projection  from  the  center  under 
neath.  Kneeling  upon  the  lower  disk  Gerald  was  between  two  plates 
subject  to  the  finest  vibration,  his  sensitive  body  the  connection.  There 
was  left  a  gap  of  one  inch  between  his  head  and  the  projection  under 
the  upper  disk  and  we  were  to  try  first  with  the  gap  closed,  and  then 
with  it  opened. 

"You  know  how  excitable  he  was.  When  he  took  his  position  he 
was  white  and  his  large  eyes  flashed  fire.  His  face  settled  into  that 
peculiarly  harsh,  fierce  expression,  for  which  I  have  never  accounted 
except  upon  the  supposition  of  nervous  agony.  The  handle  to  his 
violin  had  been  wrapped  with  fine  steel  wire,  and  this,  extending  a  yard 
outward,  was  bent  into  a  tiny  hook,  intended  to  be  clasped  around  the 
suspended  wire  that  it  might  convey  to  it  the  full  vibrations  from 
the  sounding  board  of  the  instrument.  I  made  this  connection,  and, 
with  the  violin  against  my  ear,  prepared  to  strike  the  'A'  note  in  the 
higher  octave,  which  if  the  vibrations  were  fine  enough  should  suggest 
in  his  mind  the  figure  of  a  daisy. 

"Gerald,  his  eyes  closed,  remained  motionless  in  his  kneeling  posture. 
Suddenly  a  faint  flash  of  light  descended  into  the  room  and  the  thunder 
rolled.  And  I,  standing  entranced  by  the  beauty  and  splendor  of 
that  face,  lost  all  thought  of  the  common  laws  of  physics.  A  look  of 
rapture  had  suffused  it,  his  eyes  now  looked  out  upon  some  vision, 
and  a  tender  smile  perfected  the  exquisite  curve  of  his  lips.  There 
was  no  need  of  violin  outside,  the  world  was  full  of  the  fine  quiverings 
of  electricity,  the  earth's  invisible  envelope  was  full  of  vibrations! 
Nature  was  speaking  a  language  of  its  own.  What  that  mind  saw 
between  the  glories  of  this  and  the  other  life  as  it  trembled  on  the 
margins  of  both,  is  not  given  to  me  to  know;  but  a  vision  had  come 
to  him  —  of  what? 

"Ah,  Edward,  how  different  the  awakening  for  him  and  me!  I  re 
member  that  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to  float  in  a  sea  of  flame;  there 
was  a  shock  like  unto  nothing  I  had  ever  dreamed,  and  lying  near  me 
upon  the  floor,  his  mortal  face  startled  out  of  its  beautiful  expression, 
lay  Gerald  —  dead!" 

The  conclusion  of  the  letter  covered  the  proposed  arrangements  for 
interment.  Edward  had  little  time  to  reflect  upon  the  strange  docu 
ment.  The  voice  of  Gen.  Evan  was  heard  calling  at  the  foot  of  the 
stair.  Looking  down  he  saw  standing  by  him  the  straight,  manly 
figure  of  Barksdale.  The  hour  of  dreams  had  ended;  the  hour  of  act 
ion  had  arrived! 


250  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XLVIIL. 
WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE. 

Barksdale  heard  the  events  of  the  night,  as  detailed  by  the  general, 
without  apparent  emotion.  He  had  gone  with  them  to  look  upon  the 
remains  of  Gerald.  He  brought  from  the  scene  only  a  graver  look  in 
his  face,  a  more  gentle  tone  in  his  voice.  These,  however,  soon  passed. 
He  was  again  the  cold,  stern,  level-headed  man  of  affairs,  listening  to 
a  strange  story.  He  lost  no  detail  and  his  quick,  trained  mind  gave 
the  matter  its  true  position. 

The  death  of  Gerald  was  peculiarly  unfortunate  for  Edward.  They 
had  now  nothing  left  but  the  negro,  and  negro  testimony  could  be 
bought  for  little  money.  He  would  undertake  to  buy  just  such  evi 
dence  as  Dick  had  given,  from;  a  dozen  men  in  ten  days  and  the  first 
man  he  would  have  sought  was  Slippery  Dick,  and  the  public 
would  be  thrown  into  doubt  as  to  Royson  by  the  fact  of  deadly  enmity 
between  the  men.  To  introduce  Dick  upon  the  stand  to  testify  and 
not  support  his  testimony  would  be  almost  a  confession  of  guilt.  The 
negro  was  too  well  known.  Gerald's  statement  would  not  be  admis 
sible,  though  his  picture  might.  But  of  what  avail  would  the  picture 
be  without  the  explanation? 

Barksdale  pointed  out  this  clearly  but  briefly.  Gen.  Evan  was  amaz 
ed  that  such  a  situation  had  not  already  presented  itself.  The  court 
case  would  have  been  Dick's  word  against  Royeon's;  the  result  would 
have  been  doubtful.  The  least  that  could  be  hoped  for,  if  the  State 
made  out  a  case  against  Edward,  was  imprisonment. 

But  there  was  more;  a  simple  escape  was  not  sufficient;  Edward 
must  not  only  escape  but  also  show  the  conspiracy  and  put  it  where 
it  belonged.  He,  Barksdale,  had  no  doubt  upon  that  point.  Royson 
was  the  guilty  man. 

This  analysis  of  the  situation,  leaving  as  it  did  the  whole  matter 
open  again,  and  the  result  doubtful,  filled  Evan  with  anxiety  and 
vexation. 

"I  thought,"  said  he,  walking  the  floor,  "that  we  had  everything  fixed ; 
that  the  only  thing  necessary  would  be  to  hold  to  the  negro  and  bring 
him  in  at  the  right  time.  If  he  died  or  got  away  we  had  his  confession 
witnessed.  Barksdale  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 


WAR  TO   THE  KNIFE  251 

"It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,"  he  said,  "to  hold  the  negro  and 
bring  him  in  at  the  right  time,  but  in  my  opinion  it  is  vital  to  the 
case  that  the  negro  be  kept  from  communicating  with  Royson,  and 
that  the  fact  of  his  arrest  be  concealed.  Where  have  you  got  him?" 

"In  the  stone  smoke-house,"  said  Edward. 

"Tied." 

"No." 

'"Then,"  said  Barksdale,  arising  at  once,  "if  not  too  late  you  must 
tie  him.  There  is  no  smoke-house  in  existence  and  no  jail  in  thia 
section  that  can  hold  Slippery  Dick  if  his  hands  are  free."  Thoroughly 
alarmed,  Gen.  Evan  led  the  way  and  Edward  followed.  Barksdale 
waved  the  latter  back. 

"Don't  risk  being  seen;  we  can  attend  to  this."  They  opened  the 
door  and  looked  about  the  dim  interior;  it  was  empty.  With  a  cry 
the  general  rushed  in  . 

"He  is  gone!"  Barksdale  stood  at  the  door;  the  building  was  a 
square  one,  with  racks  overhead  for  hanging  meat.  There  was  not 
the  slighest  chance;  of  concealment.  A  mound  of  earth  in  one  corner 
aroused  his  suspicions.  He  went  to  it,  found  a  burrow  and,  running 
his  arm  into  this,  he  laid  hold  of  a  human  leg. 

"Just  in  time,  General,  he  is  here!"  With  a  powerful  effort  he 
drew  the  negro  into  the  light.  In  one  hour  more  he  would  have  been 
under  the  foundations  and  gone.  Dick  rose  and  glanced  at  the  open 
door  as  he  brushed  the  dirt  from  his  eyes,  but  there  was  a  grip  of 
steel  upon  his  collar,  and  a  look  in  the  face  before  him  that  suggested 
the  uselessness  of  resistance.  The  general  recovered  the  strap  and 
bound  the  elbows  as  before. 

"I  will  bring  up  shackles,"  said  Barksdale,  briefly.  "In  the  mean 
time,  this  will  answer.  But  you  know  the  stake !  Discharge  the  house 
servant,  and  I  will  send  a  man  of  my  own  selection.  In  the  meantime 
look  in  here  occasionally."  They  returned  to  the  house  and  into  the 
library,  where  they  found  Edward  and  informed  him  of  the  arrange 
ments. 

"Now,"  said  Barksdale,  "this  is  the  result  of  my  efforts  in  another 
direction.  The  publication  of  libelous  article  is  almost  impossible,  with 
absolute  secrecy  as  to  the  authorship.  A  good  detective,  with  time  and 
money,  can  unravel  the  mystery  and  fix  the  responsibility  upon  the 
guilty  party.  I  went  into  this  because  Mr.  Morgan  was  away,  and  the 
circumstances  were  such  that  he  could  not  act  in  the  simplest  man 
ner  if  he  found  the  secret.  He  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  a  number 


252  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

of  papers,  and  to  these,  as  he  proceeded,  he  from  time  to  time  referred. 

"We  got  our  first  clew  by  purchase.  Sometimes  in  a  newspaper  office 
there  is  a  man  who  is  keen  enough  to  preserve  a  sheet  of  manuscript 
that  he  'set  up,'  when  reflection  suggests  that  it  may  be  of  future 
value.  Briefly,  I  found  such  a  man  and  bought  this  sheet" — lifting  it 
a  moment — "of  no  value  except  as  to  the  handwriting. 

"The  first  step  toward  discovering  the  name  of  the  Tell-Tale  cor 
respondent  was  a  matter  of  difficulty,  from  the  nature  of  the  paper. 
There  was  always  in  this  case  the  dernier  ressort;  the  editor  could 
be  forced  at  the  point  of  a  pistol.  But  that  was  hazardous.  The 
correspondent's  name  was  discovered  in  this  way.  We  offered  and 
paid  a  person  in  position  to  know,  for  the  addresses  of  all  letters 
from  the  paper's  office  to  persons  in  this  city.  One  man's  name  was 
frequently  repeated.  We  got  a  specimen  of  his  handwriting  and 
compared  it  with  the  sheet  of  manuscript;  the  chirography  was  iden 
tical. 

"A  brief  examination  of  the  new  situation  convinced  me  that  the 
writer  did  not  act  independently ;  he  was  a  young  man  not  long  in  the 
city  and  could  not  have  known  the  facts  he  wrote  of  nor  have  obtained 
them  on  his  own  account  without  arousing  suspicion.  He  was  being 
used  by  another  party — by  some  one  having  confidential  relations  or 
connections  with  certain  families,  Col.  Montjoy's  included.  I  then 
began  to  suspect  the  guilty  party. 

"The  situation  was  now  exceedingly  delicate  and  I  called  into  con 
sultation  Mr.  Dabney,  one  of  our  shrewdest  young  lawyers,  and  one, 
by  the  way,  Mr.  Morgan,  I  will  urge  upon  you  to  employ  in  this  de 
fense;  in  fact,  you  will  find  no  other  necessary,  but  by  all  means  hold 
to  him.  The  truth  is,"  he  added,  "I  have  already  retained  him  for 
you,  but  that  does  not  necessarily  bin3  you." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Edward.    "We  shall  retain  him." 

"Very  good.  Now  we  wanted  this  young  man's  information  and  we 
did  not  wish  the  man  who  used  him  to  know  that  anything  was  being 
done  or  had  been  done,  and  last  week,  after  careful  consultation,  I 
acted.  I  called  in  this  young  fellow  and  appointed  him  agent  at  an 
important  place  upon  our  road,  but  remote,  making  his  salary  a  good 
one.  He  jumped  at  the  chance  and  I  did  not  give  him  an  hour's  time 
to  get  ready.  He  was  to  go  upon  trial,  and  he  went.  I  let  him  enjoy 
the  sensation  of  prosperity  for  a  week  before  exploding  my  mine. 
Last  night  I  went  down  and  called  on  him  with  our  lawyer.  We  took 
him  to  the  hotel,  locked  the  door  and  terrorized  him  into  a  confession, 


WAR  TO   THE  KNIFE  253 

first  giving  him  assurance  that  no  harm  should  come  to  him  and  that 
his  position  would  not  be  affected.  He  gave  away  the  whole  plot  and 
conspiracy. 

"The  man  we  want  is  Amos  Royson!" 

"The  old  general  was  out  of  his  chair  and  jubilant.  He  was  recalled 
to  the  subject  by  the  face  of  the  speaker,  now  white  and  cold,  fixed 
upon  him. 

"I  did  not  have  evidence  enough  to  convict  him  of  conspiracy,  nor 
would  the  evidence  help  Mr.  Morgan's  case,  standing  alone  as  it  did. 
The  single  witness,  and  he  in  my  employ  then,  could  not  have  convicted, 
although  he  might  have  ruined,  Royson.  I  am  now  working  upon  the 
murder  case.  I  came  to  the  city  at  daylight  and  had  just  arrived 
home  when  your  note  reached  me.  My  intention  was  to  go  straight 
to  Royson's  office  and  give  him  an  opportunity  of  writing  out  his  ac 
knowledgement  of  his  infamy  and  retraction.  If  he  had  refused 
I  would  have  killed  him  as  surely  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven." 

Edward  held  out  his  hand  silently  and  the  men  understood  each  other. 

"Now,"  continued  Barksdale,  "the  situation  has  changed.  There 
is  evidence  enough  to  convict  Royson  of  conspiracy,  perhaps.  We  must 
consult  Dabney,  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  our  course  will  be  to 
go  to  trial  ourselves  and  spring  the  mine  without  having  aroused 
suspicion.  When  Slippery  Dick  goes  upon  the  stand  he  must  find 
Royson  confident  and  in  my  opinion  he  will  convict  himself  in  open 
court,  if  we  can  get  him  there.  The  chances  are  he  will  be  present. 
The  case  will  attract  a  great  crowd.  He  would  naturally  come.  But 
we  shall  take  no  chances;  he  will  come! 

"Just  one  thing  more  now;  you  perceive  the  importance,  the  vital 
importance,  of  secrecy  as  to  your  prisoner;  under  no  consideration 
must  his  presence  here  be  known  outside.  To  insure  this  it  seems 
necessary  to  take  one  trusty  man  into  our  employ.  Have  you  con 
sidered  how  we  would  be  involved  if  Mr.  Morgan  should  be  arrested?" 

"But  he  will  not  be.     Sheriff " 

"You  forget  Royson.  He  is  merciless  and  alert.  If  he  discovers 
Mr.  Morgan's  presence  in  this  community  he  will  force  an  arrest.  The 
sheriff  will  do  all  in  his  power  for  us,  but  he  is  an  officer  under  oath, 
and  with  an  eye,  of  course,  to  re-election.  I  would  forestall  this;  I 
would  let  the  man  who  comes  to  guard  Dick  guard  Mr.  Morgan  also. 
In  other  words,  let  him  go  under  arrest  and  accept  a  guard  in  his 
own  house.  The  sheriff  can  act  in  this  upon  his  own  discretion,  but 
the  arrest  should  be  made."  Edward  and  the  general  were  for  a  mo- 


254  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ment  silent. 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  former.  "Let  the  arrest  be  made."  Barks- 
dale  took  his  departure. 

The  butler  appeared  and  was  summarily  discharged  for  having 
abandoned  Virdow  during  the  night. 

And  then  came  the  deputy,  a  quiet,  confident  man  of  few  words, 
who  served  the  warrant  upon  Edward,  and  then,  proceeding  with 
his  prisoner  to  the  smoke-house,  put  shackles  upon  Slippery  Dick, 
and  supplemented  them  with  handcuffs. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 
PREPARING  THE  MINE. 

This  time  the  coroner  was  summoned.  He  came,  examined  the  body 
of  Gerald,  heard  Virdow's  statement  and  concluded  that  he  could  not 
hold  an  inquest  without  subjecting  himself  to  unpleasant  criticism 
and  giving  candidates  for  his  office  something  to  take  hold  of. 

The  funeral  was  very  quiet.  Col.  Montjoy,  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  Mary 
came  in  the  old  family  carriage  and  the  general  on  horseback. 

The  little  group  stood  around  the  open  coffin  and  gazed  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  pale,  chaste  face.  The  general  could  not  endure  more 
than  the  one  glance.  As  it  lay  exposed  to  him,  it  was  the  perfect 
image  of  a  face  that  had  never  dimmed  in  his  memory.  Mary's  tears 
fell  silently  as  she  laid  her  little  cross  of  white  autumn  rosebuds  upon 
the  silent  breast  and  turned  away.  Edward  was  waiting  for  her;  she 
took  his  arm  and  went  upon  the  portico. 

"It  is  a  sad  blow  to  you,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said. 

"It  removes  the  only  claim  upon  me,"  was  his  answer.  "When  all 
is  over  and  this  trial  ended,  It  shall  very  likely  return  to  Europe  for 
good!"  They  were  silent  for  a  while.  "I  came  here  full  of  hope,"  he 
continued;  "I  have  met  distrust,  accusation,  assaults  upon  my  char 
acter  and  life,  the  loss  of  friends,  disappointments  and  now  am  ac 
cused  of  murder  and  must  undergo  a  public  trial.  It  it  enough  to 
satisfy  most  men  with — the  south." 

"And  do  you  count  your  real  friendi  as  nothing?" 

"My  real  friends  are  few,  but  they  count  for  much,"  he  said,  earnest- 


PREPARING   THE   MINE  255 

ly;  "it  will  be  hard  to  part  with  them — with  you.  But  fate  has  laid 
an  iron  hand  upon  me.  I  must  go."  He  found  her  looking  at  him 
with  something  of  wonder  upon  her  face. 

"You  know  best,"  she  said,  quietly.  There  was  something  in  her 
manner  that  reminded  him  of  the  calm  dignity  of  her  father. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "and  I  cannot  ex 
plain,  and  yet  I  will  go  this  far.  My  parents  have  left  me  a  mystery 
to  unfathom;  until  I  have  solved  it  I  shall  not  come  back,  I  cannot 
come  back."  He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his.  "It  is  this  that  re 
strains  me;  you  have  been  a  true  friend;  it  grieves  me  that  I  cannot 
share  my  troubles  with  you  and  ask  your  woman's  judgment,  but  I 
cannot — I  cannot!  I  only  ask  that  you  keep  me  always  in  your  mem 
ory,  as  you  will  always  be  the  brightest  spot  in  mine."  She  was  now 
pale  and  deeply  affected  by  his  tone  and  manner. 

"You  cannot  tell  me,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Not  even  you,  the  woman  I  love;  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved. 
Ah,  what  have  I  said?"  She  had  withdrawn  her  hand  and  was  look 
ing  away.  "Forgive  me;  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  I,  a 
man  under  indictment  for  murder,  a  possible  felon,  an  unknown!" 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  fearlessly. 

"Ycu  are  right.  You  can  rely  upon  friendship,  but  under  the  circum 
stances  nothing  can  justify  you  in  speaking  of  love  to  a  woman — you 
do  not  trust." 

"Do  not  trust!  You  cannot  mean  that!"  She  had  turned  away 
proudly  and  would  have  left  him. 

"I  have  seen  so  little  of  women,"  he  said.  "Let  that  be  my  excuse. 
I  would  trust  you  with  my  life,  my  honor,  my  happiness —  but  I  shall 
not  burden  you  with  my  troubles.  I  have  everything  to  offer  you  but 
a  name.  I  have  feared  to  tell  you ;  I  have  looked  to  see  you  turn  away 
in  suspicion  and  distrust — in  horror.  I  could  not.  But  anything, 
even  that,  is  better  than  reproach  and  wrong  judging. 

"I  tell  you  now  that  I  love  you  as  no  woman  was  ever  loved  before; 
that  I  have  loved  you  since  you  first  came  into  my  life,  and  that  though 
we  be  parted  by  half  a  world  of  space,  and  through  all  eternity,  I  still 
shall  love  you.  But  I  shall  never,  so  help  me  heaven,  ask  the  woman 
I  love  to  share  an  unknown's  lot!  You  have  my  reasons  now;  it  is 
because  I  do  love  you  that  I  go  away."  He  spoke  the  words  passion 
ately.  And  then  he  found  her  standing  close  to  his  side. 

"And  I,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face  through  tearful  but 
smiling  eyes,  "do  not  care  enything  for  your  name  or  your  doubts, 


256  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  I  tell  you,  Edward  Morgan,  that  you  shall  not  go  away;  you  shall 
not  leave  me."  He  caught  his  breath  and  stood  looking  into  her  brave 
face. 

"But  .your  family — it  is  proud " 

"It  will  suffer  nothing  in  pride.  We  will  work  out  this  little 
mystery  together."  She  extended  her  hand  and,  taking  it,  he  took  her 
also.  She  drew  back,  shaking  her  head  reproachfully. 

"I  did  not  mean  that." 

He  was  about  to  reply,  but  at  that  moment  a  scene  was  presented 
that  filled  them  both  with  sudden  shame.  How  true  it  is  that  in  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death. 

The  hearse  had  passed  the  gate.     Silently  they  entered  the  house. 

He  led  her  back  to  the  side  of  the  dead  man. 

"He  loved  you,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  shall  speak  the  truth  for  him." 
Mary  bent  above  the  white  face  and  left  a  kiss  upon  the  cold  brow. 

"He  was  your  friend,'4  she  said,  fearing  to  look  into  his  eye. 

He  comprehended  and  was  silent. 

It  was  soon  over.  The  ritual  for  the  dead,  the  slow  journey  to  the 
city  of  silence,  a  few  moments  about  the  open  grave,  the  sound  of  dirt; 
falling  upon  the  coffin  a  prayer — and  Gerald,  living  and  dead,  was 
no  longer  a  part  of  their  lives. 

The  Montjoys  were  to  go  home  from  the  cemetery.  Edward  said 
farewell  to  them  separately  and  to  Mary  last.  Strange  paradox, 
this  human  life.  He  came  from  that  new-made  grave  almost  happy. 

The  time  for  action  was  approaching  rapidly.  He  went  with  Dab- 
ney  and  the  general  to  see  Slippery  Dick  for  the  last  time  before  the 
trial.  There  was  now  but  one  serious  doubt  that  suggested  itself.  They 
took  the  man  at  night  to  the  grave  of  Rita  and  made  him  go  over  every 
detail  of  his  experience  there.  Under  the  influence  of  the  scene  he 
began  with  the  incident  of  the  voodoo's  "conjure  bag"  and  in  reply  to 
queries  showed  where  it  had  been  inserted  in  the  cedar.  Edward 
took  his  knife  and  began  to  work  at  the  plug,  but  this  action  plunged 
Dick  into  such  terror  that  Dabney  cautioned  Edward  in  a  low  voice 
to  desist. 

"Dick,"  said  the  young  man  finally,  with  sudden  decision,  "if  you 
fail  us  in  this  matter  not  only  shall  I  remove  that  plug  but  I  shall  put 
you  in  jail  and  touch  you  with  the  bag."  Dick  was  at  once  voluble 
with  promises.  Edward,  his  memory  stirred  by  the  incident,  was 
searching  his  pockets.  He  had  carried  the  little  charm  obtained  for 
him  by  Mary  because  of  the  tender  memories  of  the  night  before  their 


PREPARING   THE    MINE  257 

journey  abroad.  He  drew  it  out  now  and  held  it  up.  Dick  had  not 
forgotten  it;  he  drew  back,  begging  piteously.  Dabney  was  greatly 
interested. 

"That  little  charm  has  proved  to  be  your  protector,  Mr.<  Morgan," 
he  said  aloud  for  the  negro's  benefit.  "You  have  not  been  in  any 
danger.  Neither  Dick  nor  anyone  else  could  have  harmed  you.  You 
should  have  told  me  before.  See  how  it  has  worked.  The  woman  who 
gave  you  the  bag  came  to  you  in  the  night  out  on  the  ocean  and 
showed  you  the  face  of  this  man;  you  knew  him  even  in  the  night, 
although  he  had  never  before  met  you  nor  you  him." 

A  sound  like  the  hiss  of  a  snake  came  from  the  negro;  he  had 
never  been  able  to  guess  why  this  stranger  had  known  him  so  quickly. 
He  now  gazed  upon  his  captor  with  mingled  fear  and  awe. 

"Befo'  Gawd,  boss,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  goin'  back  on  you,  boss!" 

"Going  back  on  him!"  said  Dabney,  laughing.  "I  should  think  not. 
I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Morgan  had  you  conjured.  Let  us  return; 
Dick  cannot  escape  that  woman  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Give  me 
the  little  bag,  Mr.  Morgan — no,  keep  it  yourself.  As  long  as  you  have 
it  you  are  safe." 

Edward  was  a  prisoner,  but  in  name  only.  Biarksdale  had  not  come 
again,  for  more  reasons  than  one,  the  main  reason  being  extra  pre 
caution  on  account  of  the  watchful  and  suspicious  Royson.  But  he 
acted  quietly  upon  the  public  mind.  The  day  following  the  interview 
he  caused  to  be  inserted  in  the  morning  paper  an  announcement  of 
Edward's  return  and  arrest,  and  the  additional  fact  that  although 
his  business  in  Paris  had  not  been  finished,  he  had  left  upon  the  first 
steamer  sailing  from  Havre.  At  the  club,  he  was  outspoken  in  his 
denunciation  of  the  newspaper  attacks  and  his  confidence  in  the  in 
nocence  of  the  man.  There  was  no  hint  in  any  quarter  that  it  had 
been  suspected  that  Rita  Morgan  was  really  not  murdered.  It  was 
generally  understood  that  the  defense  would  rely  upon  the  State's 
inability  to  make  out  a  case. 

But  Edward  did  not  suffer  greatly  from  loneliness.  The  day  after 
the  funeral  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  Mary,  together  with  the  colonel,  paid 
a  formal  call  and  stayed  for  some  hours;  and  the  general  came  fre 
quently  with  Dabney  and  Eldridge,  who  had  also  been  employed,  and 
consulted  over  their  plans  for  the  defense.  Arrangements  had  been 
made  with  the  solicitor  for  a  speedy  trial  and  the  momentous  day 
dawned. 


258  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  L. 
SLIPPERY   DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG. 

The  prominence  of  the  accused  and  of  his  friends,  added  to  the 
sensational  publication,  made  the  case  one  of  immense  interest.  The 
court  house  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  and  room  had  to  be  made 
within  the  bar  for  prominent  citizens.  There  was  a  "color  line"  fea 
ture  in  the  murder,  and  the  gallery  was  packed  with  curious  black 
faces.  Edward,  quiet  and  self-contained,  sat  by  his  lawyers,  and 
near  him  was  the  old  general  and  Col.  Mont  joy.  Slightly  in  the  rear 
was  Barksdale,  calm  and  observant.  The  State  had  subpoenaed  Roy- 
son  as  a  witness,  and,  smilingly  indifferent,  he  occupied  a  seat  as  a 
member  of  the  bar,  inside  the  rail.  The  case  was  called  at  last. 

"The  State  versus  Edward  Morgan,  murder.  Mr.  Solicitor,  what 
do  you  say  for  the  State?"  asked  the  court. 

"Ready." 

"What  do  you  say  for  the  defense,  gentlemen?" 

"Ready." 

"Mr.  Clerk,  call  the  jury."  The  panel  was  called  and  sworn.  The 
work  of  striking  the  jury  then  proceeded.  Eldridge  and  Dabney  were 
clever  practitioners  and  did  not  neglect  any  precaution.  The  jury 
list  was  scanned  and  undesirable  names  eliminated  with  as  much  care 
as  if;  the  prisoner  had  small  chance  of  escape. 

This  proceeding  covered  an  hour,  but  at  last  the  panel  was  com 
plete  and  sworn.  The  defendant  was  so  little  known  that  this  was 
a  simple  matter. 

The  witnesses  for  the  State  were  then  called  and  sworn.  They  con 
sisted  of  the  coroner,  the  physician  who  had  examined  the  wound, 
and  others,  including  Gen.  Evan,  Virdow  and  Royson.  Gen.  Evan 
and  Virdow  had  also  been  summoned  by  the  defense. 

As  Royson  took  the  oath  it  was  observed  that  he  was  slightly  pale 
and  embarrassed,  but  this  was  attributed  to  the  fact  of  his  recent 
conflict  and  the  eager  state  of  the  great  crowd.  No  man  in  the 
room  kept  such  watch  upon  him  as  Barksdale;  never  once  did  he  take 
his  eyes  from  the  scarred  face.  Witnesses  for  the  defense  were  then 
called — Gen.  Evan  and  Virdow.  They  had  taken  the  oath.  The 
defense  demanded  that  witnesses  for  the  State  be  sent  out  of  the 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG  259 

room  until  called.  As  Royson  was  rising  to  comply  with  the  require 
ment  common  in  such  cases,  Dabney  stood  up  and  said: 

"Before  Mr.  Royson  goes  out,  may  it  please  Your  Honor,  I  would 
respectfully  ask  of  the  solicitor  what  it  is  expects  to  prove  by  him?" 

"We  expect  to  prove,  Your  Honor,  that  Mr.  Royson  wrote  a  certain 
letter  which  charged  the  prisoner  with  being  a  man  of  mixed  blood, 
and  that  Rita  Morgan,  the  woman  who  was  killed,  was  the  woman 
in  question  and  the  only  authority;  an  important  point  in  the  case. 
Mr.  Royson,  I  should  say,  is  here  by  subpoena  only  and  occupying  a 
very  delicate  situation,  since  he  was  afterward,  by  public  report,  en 
gaged  in  a  conflict  with  the  prisoner,  growing  out  of  the  publication 
of  that  letter." 

"The  solicitor  is  unnecessarily  prolix,  Your  Honor.  I  asked  the 
question/  to  withdraw  our  demand  in  his  case  as  a  matter  of  cour 
tesy  to  a  member  of  the  bar."  Royson  bowed  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  now  ask,"  said  Dabney,  "a  like  courtesy  in  behalf  of  Gen.  Evan 
and  Prof.  Virdow,  witnesses  for  both  State  and  defense."  This  was 
readily  granted. 

There  was  no  demurrer  to  the  indictment.  The  solicitor  advanced 
before  the  jury  and  read  the  document,  word  for  word.  "We  expect 
to  prove,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that  the  dead  woman,  named  in 
this  indictment,  was  for  many  years  housekeeper  for  the  late  John 
Morgan,  and  more  recently  for  the  defendant  in  this  case,  Edward 
Morgan;  that  she  resided  upon  the  premises  with  him  and  his  cousin, 
Gerald  Morgan;  that  on  a  certain  night,  to  wit,  the  date  named  in 
the  indictment,  she  was  murdered  by  being  struck  in  the  head  with 
some  blunt  implement,  and  that  she  was  discovered  almost  immedi 
ately  thereafter  by  a  witness;  that  there  was  no  one  with  the  deceased 
at  the  time  of  her  death  but  the  defendant,  Edward  Morgan,  and  that 
he,  only,  had  a  motive  for  her  death — namely,  the  suppression  of 
certain  facts,  or  certan  publicly  alleged  facts,  which  she  alone  pos 
sessed;  that  after  her  death,  which  was  sudden,  he  failed  to  notify  the 
coroner,  but  permitted  the  body  to  be  buried  without  examination. 
And  upon  these  facts,  we  say,  the  defendant  is  guilty  of  murder. 
The  coroner  will  please  take  the  stand." 

The  officer  named  appeared  and  gave  in  his  testimony.  He  had, 
some  days  after  the  burial  of  the  woman,  Rita  Morgan,  received 
a  hint  from  an  anonymous  letter  that  foul  play  was  suspected  in  the 
case,  and  acting  under  advice,  had  caused  the  body  to  be  disinterred 
and  he  had  held  an  inquest  upon  it,  with  the  result  as  expressed 


260  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

in  the  verdict  which  he  proceeded  to  read  and  which  was  then  intro 
duced  as  evidence.  The  witness  was  turned  over  to  the  defense;  they 
consulted  and  announced  "no  questions". 

The  next  witness  was  the  physician  who  examined  the  wound.  He 
testified  to  the  presence  of  a  wound  in  the  back  of  the  head  that 
crushed  the  skull  and  was  sufficient  to  have  caused  death.  Dabney 
asked  of  this  witness  if  there  was  much  of  a  wound  in  the  scalp,  and 
the  reply  was  "No". 

"Was  there  any  blood  visible?" 

"No."  The  defense  had  no  other  questions  for  this  officer,  but 
announced  that  they  reserved  the  right  to  recall  him  if  the  case  re 
quired  it. 

The  next  witness  was  Virdow.  He  had  seen  the  body  after  death, 
but  had  not  examined  the  back  of  the  head;  had  seen  a  small  cut  upon 
the  temple,  which  the  defendant  had  explained  to  him  was  made  by 
her  falling  against  the  glass  in  the  conservatory.  There  was  a  pan* 
broken  at  the  point  indicated. 

And  then  Evan  was  put  up. 

"Gen.  Evan,"  asked  the  solicitor,  "where  were  you  upon  the  night 
that  Rita  Morgan  died?" 

"At  the  residence  of  Edward  Morgan,  sir." 

"Where  were  you  when  you  first  discovered  the  death  of  Rita 
Morgan?" 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  at  the  time  indicated,  I  was  standing  in 
the  glass-room^  occupied  by  the  late  Gerald  Morgan,  in  the  resi 
dence  of  the  defendant  in  this  county " 

"And  state?"  interrupted  the  solicitor. 

"And  state.  I  was  standing  by  the  bedside  of  Gerald  Morgan,  who 
was  ill.  I  was  deeply  absorbed  in  thought  and  perfectly  oblivious  to 
my  surroundings,  I  suppose.  I  am  certain  that  Edward  Morgan 
was  in  the  room  with  me.  I  was  aroused  by  hearing  him  cry  out  and 
then  discovered  that  the  door  leading  into  the  shrubbery  was  open. 
I  ran  out  and  found  him  near  the  head  of  the  woman." 

"Did  you  notice  any  cuts  or  signs  of  blood?" 

"I  noticed  only  a  slight  cut  upon  the  forehead." 

"Did  you  examine  her  for  other  wounds?" 

"I  did  not.  I  understood  then  that  she  had,  in  a  fit  of  some  kind, 
fallen  against  the  glass,  and  that  seeing  her  from  within,  Mr.  Mor 
gan  had  run  out  and  picked  her  up." 

"Did  you  hear  any  sound  of  breaking  glass?" 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG  261 

"I  think  I  did.  I  cannot  swear  to  it;  my  mind  was  completely 
absorbed  at  that  time.  There  was  broken  glass  at  the  place  pointed 
out  by  him." 

"That  night — pointed  out  that  night?" 

"No.     I  believe  some  days  later." 

"Did  you  hear  voices?" 

"I  heard  some  one  say  'They  lied!'  and  then  I  heard  Edward  Mor 
gan  cry  aloud.  Going  out  I  found  him  by  the  dead  body  of  the  woman." 

The  defense  cross-questioned. 

"You  do  not  swear,  General  Evan,  that  Mr.  Morgan  was  not  in  the 
room  at  the  time  the  woman  Rita  was  seized  with  sudden  illness?" 

"I  do  not.     It  was  my  belief  then,  and  is  now " 

"Stop,"   said   the   solicitor. 

"Confine  youself  to  facts  only,"  said  the  court. 

"You  are  well  acquainted   with  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"As  well  as  possible  in  the  short  time  I  have  known  him." 

"What  is  his  character?" 

"He  is  a  gentleman  and  as  brave  as  any  man  I  ever  saw  on  the 
field  of  battle."  There  was  slight  applause  as  the  general  came 
down,  but  it  was  for  the  general  himself. 

"Mr.  Royson  will  please  take  the  stand,"  said  the  solicitor.  "You 
were  the  author  of  the  letter  concerning  the  alleged  parentage  of 
Edward  Morgan,  which  was  published  in  an  extra  in  this  city  a  few 
weeks  since?"  Royson  bowed  slightly. 

"From  whom  did  you  get  your  information?" 

"From  Rita  Morgan,"  he  said,  calmly.  There  was  a  breathless 
silence  for  a  moment  and  then  an  angry  murmurs  in  the  great 
audience.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Edward,  who  had  grown  pale, 
but  he  maintained  his  calmness.  The  astounding  statement  had  filled 
him  with  a  sickening  horror.  Not  until  that  moment  did  he  fully 
comprehend  the  extent  of  the  enmity  cherished  against  him  by  the 
witness.  On  the  face  of  Barksdale  descended  a  look  as  black  as 
night.  He  did  not,  however,  move  a  muscle. 

"You  say  that  Rita  Morgan  told  you — when?" 

"About  a  week  previous  to  her  death.  She  declared  that  her  own 
son  had  secured  his  rights  at  last,  I  had  been  consulted  by  her  soon 
after  John  Morgan's  death,  looking  to  the  protection  of  those  rights, 
she  being  of  the  opinion  that  Gerald  Morgan  would  inherit.  When  it 
was  found  that  this  defendant  here  had  inherited  she  called,  paid  my 
fee  and  made  the  statement  as  given." 


262  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Why  did  you  fight  a  duel  with  the  defendant,  then — knowing,  or 
believing  you  knew,  his  base  parentage?" 

"I  was  forced  to  do  so  by  the  fact  that  I  was  challenged  direct 
and  no  informant  demanded;  and  by  the  fact  that  while  my  frieds 
were  discussing  my  situation,  General  Evan,  acting  under  a  mistaken 
idea,  vouched  for  him." 

These  ingenuous  answers  took  away  the  general's  breath.  He  had 
never  anticipated  such  plausible  lies.  Even  Dabney  was  for  the  mo 
ment  bewildered.  Edward  could  scarcely  restrain  his  emotion  and 
horror.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Rita  was  not  dead  when  the  challenge 
was  accepted.  Royson  had  lied  under  oath! 

"The  witness  is  with  you,"  said  the  solicitor,  with  just  a  tinge 
of  sarcasm  in  his  tones. 

"Were  the  statements  of  Rita  Morgan  in  writing?"  asked  Dabney. 

"No." 

"Then,  may  it  please  Your  Honor,  I  move  to  rule  them  out."  A 
debate  followed.  The  statements  were  ruled  out.  Royson  was  suf 
fered  to  descend,  subject  to  recall. 

"The  State  closes,"  said  the  prosecuting  officer. 

Then  came  the  sensation  of  the  day. 

The  crowd  and  the  bar  were  wondering  what  the  defense  would 
attempt  with  no  witnesses,  when  Dabney  arose. 

"May  it  please  Your  Honor,  we  have  now  a  witness,  not  here  when 
the  case  was  called,  whom  we  desire  to  bring  in  and  have  sworn. 
We  shall  decide  about  introducing  him  within  a  few  moments  and 
there  is  one  other  witness  teregraphed  for  who  has  just  reached 
the  city.  We  ask  leave  to  introduce  him  upon  his  arrival."  And 
then  turning1  to  the  sheriff,  he  whispered  direction.  The  sheriff  went 
to  the  hall  and  returned  with  a  negro.  Royson  was  engaged  in  con 
versation,  leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  with  his  face  avert 
ed.  The  witness  was  sworn  and  took  the,  stand  facing  the  crowd.  A 
murmur  of  surprise  ran  about  the  room,  for  there,  looking  out 
upon  them,  was  the  well-known  face  of  Slippery  Dick.  The  next 
proceedings  were  irregular  but  dramatic.  Little  Dabney  drew  him 
self  up  to  his  full  height  and  shouted  'in  a  shrill  voice: 

"Look  at  that  man,  gentlemen  of  the  jury."  At  the  same  time 
his  finger  was  pointed  at  Royson.  All  eyes  were  at  once  fixed  upon 
that  individual.  His  face  was  as  chalk,  and  the  red  scar  across  the 
nose  flamed  as  so  much  fiery  paint.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  the 
witness  with  such  an  expression  of  fear  and  horror  that  those  near 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG  263 

him  shuddered  and  drew  back  slightly.  And  as  he  gazed  his  left 
hand  fingered  at  his  collar  and  presently,  with  sudden  haste,  tore 
away  the  black  cravat.  Then  he  made  an  effort  to  leave,  but  Barks- 
dale  arose  and  literally  hurled  him  back  in  his  chair.  The  court 
rapped  loudly. 

"I  fine  you  $50,  Mr.  Barksdale.     Take  your  seat!" 

Dick,  unabashed,  met  that  wild,  pleading,  threatening,  futile  gaze 
of  Royson,  who  was  now  but  half-conscious  of  the  proceedings. 

"Tell  the  jury,  do  you  know  this  man?"  shouted  the  shrill  voice 
again,  the  finger  still  pointing  to  Royson. 

"Yes,  sah;  dat's  Mr.  Royson." 

"Were  you  ever  hired  by  him?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"When— the  last  time?" 

"'Bout  three  weeks  ago." 

"To  do  what?" 

"Open    'er  grave." 

"Whose  grave?" 

"Rita   Morgan's." 

"And  what  else?" 

There  was  intense  silence;   Dick  twisted  uneasily. 

"And  what  else?"  repeated  Dabney. 

"Knock  her  in  de  head." 

"Did  you  do  it?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"Where  did  you  knock  her'  in  the  head?" 

"In  de  back  of  de  head." 

"Hard?" 

"Hard  enough  to  break  her  skull." 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Morgan  that  night?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"Where?" 

"Downtown,  jus'  fo'  I  tole  Mr.  Royson  'all  right'." 

"Where  did  you  next  see  him?" 

"After  he  was  killed  by  de  lightnin'." 

"The  witness  is  with  you,"  said  Dabney,  the  words  ringing  out 
in  triumph.  He  faced  the  solicitor  defiantly.  His  questions  had  fol 
lowed  each  other  with  astounding  rapidity  and  the  effect  on  every 
hearer  ,'was  profound.  The  solicitor  was  silent;  his  eyes  were  upon 
Royson.  Some  one  had  handed  the  latter  a  glass  of  water,  which  he 


264  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

was  trying  to  drink. 

"I  have  no  questions,"  said  the  solicitor  gravely. 

"You  can  come  down,  Dick."  The  negro  stepped  down  and  started 
out.  He  passed  close  to  Royson,  who  was  standing  in  the  edge  of  the 
middle  aisle.  Their  eyes  met.  It  may  have  been  pure  devilishness 
or  simply  nervous  facial  contortion,  but  at  that  moment  the  negro's 
face  took  on  a  grin.  Whatever  the  cause,  the  effect  was  fatal  to 
him.  The  approach  of  the  negro  had  acted  upon  the  wretched  Roy- 
son  like  a  maddening  stimulant.  At  the  sight  of  that  diabolical  coun 
tenance,  he  seized  him  with  his  left  hand  and  stabbed  him  frantically 
a  dozen  times  before  he  could  be  prevented.  With  a  moan  of  anguish 
the  negro  fell  dead,  bathing  the  scene  in  blood. 

A  great  cry  went  up  from  the  spectators  and  not  until  the  strug 
gling  lawyer  and  the  bloody  corpse  had  been  dragged  out  did  the  court 
succeed  in  enforcing  order. 

The  solicitor  went  up  and  whispered  to  the  judge,  who  nodded 
immediately,  but  before  he  announced  that  a  verdict  of  acquittal 
would  be  allowed,  the  defendant's  attorneys  drew  him  aside,  and  made 
an  appeal  to  him  to  let  them  proceed,  as  a  mere  acquittal  was  not 
full  justice  to  the  accused. 

Then  the  defense  put  up  the  ex-reporter  and  by  him  proved  the 
procurement  by  Royson  of  the  libels  and  his  authorship  and  gave  his 
connection  with  the  affair  from  the  beginning,  which  was  the  recep 
tion  of*  an  anonymous  card  informing  him  that  Royson  held  such  in 
formation. 

Gen.  Evan  then  testified  that  Rita  died  while  Royson's  second  was 
standing  at  the  front  door  at  Ilexhurst,  with  Royson's  note  in  his 
pocket. 

The  jury  was  briefly  charged  by  the  court  and  without  leaving 
the  box  returned  a  verdict  of  not  guilty.  The  tragedy  and  dramatic 
denouement  had  wrought  the  audience  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excite 
ment.  The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  indicated  by  one  immense  cheer, 
and  Edward  found  himself  surrounded  by  more  friends  than  he 
thought  he  had  acquaintances,  who  shook  his  hand  and  congratulated 
him.  Barksdale  stalked  through  the  crowd  and  laid  $50  upon  the 
clerk's  desk.  Smiling  up  at  the  court  he  said: 

"Will  Your  Honor  not  make  it  a  thousand?     It  is  too  cheap!" 

But  that  good-natured  dignitary  replied: 

"The  fine  is  remitted.     You  couldn't  help  it." 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS  265 

CHAPTER  LI. 
A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS. 

Gambia  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  sudden  departure  of  the 
Montjoys.  She  shut  herself  up  and  refused  all  visitors.  Was  the 
great-hearted  yet  stern  Gambia  ill  or  distressed?  The  maid  did  not 
know. 

She  had  called  for  the  "Figaro,"  to  see  the  passenger  list  of  the 
steamer.  The  names  were  there;  the  steamer  had  sailed.  And  then 
as  she  sat  gazing  upon  the  sheet  another  caught  her  attention  in  an 
adjoining  column,  "Gaspard  Levinge."  It  was  in  the  body  of  an  ad 
vertisement,  which  read: 

"Reward — A  liberal  reward  will  be  paid  for  particulars  of  the  death 
of  Gaspard  Levigne,  which,  it  is  said,  occurred  recently  in  Paris. 
Additional  reward  will  be  paid  for  the  address  of  the  present  owner 
of  the  Stradivarius  violin  lately  owned  by  the  said  Gaspard  Levigne 
and  the  undersigned  will  buy  said  violin  at  full  value,  if  for  sale." 

Following  this  was  a  long  and  minute  description  of  the  instru 
ment.  The  advertisement  was  signed  by  Louis  Levigne,  Breslau, 
Silesia. 

Gambia  read  and  reread  this  notice  with  pale  face  and  gave  her 
self  to  reflection.  She  threw  off  the  weight  of  the  old  troubles 
which  had  swarmed  over  her  again  and  prepared  for  action.  Three 
hours  later  she  was  on  her  way  to  Berlin;  the  next  day  found  her  in 
Breslau.  A  few  moments  later  and  she  was  entering  the  house  of 
the  advertiser. 

In  a  dark,  old-fashioned  living-room,,  a  slender,  gray-haired  man 
came  forward  rather  cautiously  to  meet  her.  She  knew  his  face  de 
spite  the  changes  of  nearly  thirty  years;  he  was  the  only  brother  of 
her  husband  and  one  of  her  chief  persecutors  in  those  unhappy  days. 
It  was  not  strange  that  in  this  tall,  queenlike  woman,  trained  to  face 
great  audiences  without  embarrassment,  he  should  fail  to  recognize 
the  shy  and  lonely  little  American  who  had  invaded  the  family  circle. 
He  bowed,  unconsciously  feeling  the  influence  of  her  fine  presence 
and  commanding  eyes. 

"You,  I  suppose,  are  Louis  Levigne,  who  advertised  recently  for 
information  of  Gaspard  Levigne?"  she  said. 


266  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Yes,  madame;  my  brother  was  the  unfortunate  Gaspard.  We 
think  him  dead.  Know  you  anything  of  him?" 

"I  knew  him  years  ago;  I  was  then  a  singer  and  he  was  my  accom 
panist.  Recently  he  died."  The  face  of  the  man  lighted  up  with  a 
strange  gleam.  She  regarded  him  curiously  and  continued:  "Died 
poor  and  friendless." 

"Ah,  indeed!  Hq  should  have  communicated  with  us;  he  was  not 
poor  and  would  not  have  been  friendless." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know,  madame,  the  new  age  is  progressive.  Some  lands  we 
had  in  northern  Silesia,  worthless  for  200  years,  have  developed  iron 
and  a  company  has  purchased."  The  woman  smiled  sadly. 

"Too  late,"  she  said,  "for  poor  Gaspard.  This  is  why  you  have 
advertised?" 

"Yes,  madame.  There  '.can  be  no  settlement  until  we  have  proofs 
of  Gaspard's  death." 

"You  are  the  only  heir  aside  from  Gaspard?" 

"Yes,  madame."  The  count  grew  restless  under  these  questions, 
but  circumstances  compelled  courtesy  to  this  visitor. 

"Excuse  my  interest,  Count,  but  Gaspard  was  my  friend  and  I 
knew  of  his  affairs.  Did  he  not  leave  heirs?"  The  man  replied  with 
gesture  in,  which  was  mingled  every  shade  of  careless  contempt  that 
could  be  expressed. 

"There  was  a  woman — a  plaything  of  Gaspard's  calling  herself  his 
wife — but  they  parted  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  He  humored  her  and 
then  sent  her  back  where  she  came  from — America,  I  believe." 

"I  am  more  than  ever  interested,  Count.  Gaspard  did  not  impress 
me  as  vicious." 

"Oh,  well,  follies  of  youth,  call  them.  Gaspard  was  wild;  he 
first  left  here  because  of  a  mock-marriagei  escapade;  when  two 
years  after  he  came  back  with  this  little  doll  we  supposed  it  was  an 
other  case;  at  any  rate,  Gaspard  was  once  drunk  enough  to  boast 
that  she  could  never  prove  the  marriage."  Gambia  could  restrain 
herself  only  with  desperate  efforts.  These  were  knife  blows. 

"Were  there  no  heirs?" 

"I  have  never  heard  It  matters  little  here.  But,  madame,  you 
know  of  Gaspard's  death;  can  you  not  give  me  the  facts  so  that  I 
may  obtain  proofs?"  She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"I  saw  him  die." 

"Ah,  that  simplifies  it  all,"  said  'the  count,  pleasantly.     "Will  you 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS  267 

be  kind  enough  to  go  before  an  attesting  officer  and  complete  the 
proofs?  You  have  answered  the  advertisment — do  I  insult  you  by 
speaking  of  reward?"  He  looked  critically  at  her  simple  but  ele 
gant  attire  and  hesitated. 

"No.  But  I  do  not  care  for  money.  I  will  'furnish  positive  proof 
of  the  death  of  Gaspard  Levigne  for  the  violin  mentioned  in  the 
advertisement."  The  man  was  now  much  astounded, 

"But  madame,  it  is  an  heirloom;  that  is  why  I  have  advertised  for  it." 

"Then  get  it.  And  let  me  receive  it  direct  from  the  hands  of  the 
present  holder  or  I  shall  not  furnish  the  proofs."  Some  doubt  of 
the  woman's  sanity  flashed  over  the  count. 

"I  have  already  explained,  madame,  that  it  is  an  heirloom " 

"And  I  have  shown  you  that  I  do  not  consider  that  as  important." 

"But  of  what  use  can  it  possibly  be  to  you?  There  are  other 
Cremonas  I  will  buy — " 

"I  want  this  one  because  it  is  the  violin  of  Gaspard  Levigne,  and 
he  was  my  husband." 

The  count  nearly  leaped  from  the  floor. 

"When  did  he  marry  you,  madame?" 

"That  is  a  long  story;  but  he  did;  we  were  bohemians  in  Paris. 
I  am  heir  to  his  interests  in  these  mines,  but  I  care  little  for  that — 
very  little.  I  am  independent.  My  husband's  violin  is  my  one  wish 
now."  The  realization  of  how  completely  he  had  been  trapped  be 
trayed  the  forced  courtesy  of  th«  man. 

"You  married  him.  I  presume  you  ascertained  that  the  Ameri 
can  wife  was  dead?" 

"You  have  informed  me  that  the  American  was  not  his  wife." 

"But  she  was,  and  if  she  is  living  today  madame's  claims  are  very 
slender." 

"You  speak  positively!" 

"I  do.  I  saw  the  proofs.  We  should  not  have  given  the  girl 
any  recognition  without  them,  knowing  Gaspard's  former  escapade." 

"Then,"  said  the  woman,  her  face  lighting  up  with  a  sudden  joy, 
and  growing  stern  again  instantly,  "then  you  lied  just  now,  you 
cowardly  hound." 

"Madame"'  The  count  had  retreated  behind  a  chair  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  bell,  but  she  was  in,  the  way. 

"You  lied,  sir,  I  say.  I  am  the  wife,  and  now  the  widow,  of 
Gaspard  Levigne,  but  not  a  second  wife.  I  am  that  'plaything,'  as 
you  called  her,  the  American,  armed  now  with  a  knowledge  of  my 


268  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

rights  and  your  treachery.  You  may  well  shiver  and  grow  pale, 
sir;  I  am  no  longer  the  trembling  child  you  terrified  with  brutality, 
but  a  woman  who  could  buy  your  family  with  its  mines  thrown  in, 
and  not  suffer  because  of  the  bad  investment.  From  this  room,  upon 
the  information  you  have  given,  I  go  to  put  my  case  in  'the  hands 
of  lawyers  and  establish  my  claim.  It  is  not  share  and  share  in 
this  country;  my  husband  was  the  first  born,  and  I  am  his  heir!" 

"My  God!" 

"It  is  too  late  to  call  upon  God;  He  is,) on  my  side  now!  I  came 
to  you,  sir,  a  woman  to  be  loved,  not  a  pauper.  My  father  was  more 
than  a  prince  in  his  country.  His  slaves  were  numbered  by  the 
hundreds.,  and  his  lands  would  have  sufficed  for  a  dozen  of  your 
counts.  I  was  crushed  and  my  life  was  ruined,  and  my  husband 
turned  against  me.  But  he  repented — he  repented.  There  was  no 
war  between  Gaspard  and  me  when  he  died."  The  man  looked  on 
and  believed  her. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  humbly,  "has  been  wronged.  For  myself,  it 
matters  little,  this  new  turn  of  affairs,  but  I  have  others."  She  had 
been  looking  beyond  him  into  space. 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  violin  I  would  have.  It  was  the 
violin  that  first  spoke  our  love;  it  is  a  part  of  me;  I  would  give 
my  fortune  to  possess  it  again."  He  was  looking  anxiously  at  her, 
not  comprehending  this  passion,  but  hoping  much  from  it. 

"And  how  much  will,  you  give?" 

"I  will  give  the  mines  and  release  all  claims  against  you  and  your 
father's  estate.'' 

"Alas,  madame  I  can  give  you  the  name  of  the  holder  of  that 
violin  but  not  the  violin  itself.  You  can  make  terms  with  him,  and 
I  will  pay  whatever  price  is  demanded." 

"How  will  I  know  you  are  not  deceiving  me?" 

"Madame  is  harsh,  but  she  will  be  convinced  if  she  knows  the  hand 
writing  of  her — husband." 

"It  is  agreed,"  she  said,  struggling  to  keep  down  her  excitement. 
Count  Levigne  reached  the  coveted  bell  and  in  a  few  minutes  secured 
a  notary,  who  drew  up  a  formal  agreement  between  the  two  parties. 
Gambia  then  gave  an  affidavit  setting  forth  the  death  of  Gaspard 
Levigne  in  proper  form  for  use  in  court.  Count  Levigne  took  from 
his  desk  an  evelope. 

"You  have  read  my  advertisement,  madame.    It  was  based  on  this : 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS  269 

"Count  L.  Levigne,  Breslau:  When  you  receive  this  I  will  be 
dead.  Make  no  effort  to  trace  me;  it  will  be  useless;  my  present 
name  is  an  assumed  one.  We  have  been  enemies  many  years,  but 
everything  changes  in  the  presence  of  death,  and  I  do  not  begrudge 
you  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  your  brother  is  beyond  trouble 
and  want  forever  and  the  title  is  yours.  The  Cremona,  to  which 
I  have  clung  even  when  honor  was  gone,  I  have  given  to  a  young 
American  named  Morgan,  who  has  made  my  life  happier  in  its  winter 
than  it  was  in  its  summer. 

"Gaspard  Levigne." 

The  count  watched  the  reader  curiously  as  she  examined  the  letter. 
Her  face  was  white,  but  her  hand  did  not  tremble  as  she  handed  back 
the  letter. 

"It  is  well,"  she  said.    "I  am  satisfied.    Good  morning,  gentlemen." 

In  Paris,  Gambia's  mind  was  soon  made  up.  She  privately  arranged 
for  an  indefinite  absence,  and  one  day  she  disappeared.  It  was  the 
sensation  of  the  hour;  the  newspapers  got  hold  of  it,  and  all  Paris 
wondered. 

There  had  always  been  a  mystery  in  the  life  of  Gambia.  No  man 
had  ever  invaded  it  beyond  the  day  when  she  put  herself  in  the  hands 
of  a  manager  and  laid  the  foundation  for  her  world-wide  success 
upon  the  lyric  stage. 

And  then  Paris  forgot;  and  only  the  circle  of  her  friends  watched 
and  waited. 

Meanwhile  the  swift  steamer  had  carried  Mrs.  Gaspard  Levigne 
across  the  Atlantic  and  she  had  begun  that  journey  into  the  south 
land,  once  the  dream  of  her  youth — the  going  back  to  father  and  to 
friends ! 

The  swift  train  carried  her  by  towns  and  villages  gorgeous  with 
new  paint  and  through  cities  black  with  the  smoke  of  factories. 
The  negroes  about  the  stations  were  not  of  the  old  life,  and  the 
rushing,  curt  and  slangy  young  men  who  came  and  went  upon  the 
train  belonged  to  a  new  age. 

The  farms,  with  faded  and  dingy  houses,  poor  fences,  and  uncared- 
for  fields  and  hedges,  swept  past  like  some  bad  dream.  All  was 
different;  not  thirty  years  but  a  century  had  rolled  its  changes  over 
the  land  since  her  girlhood. 

And  then  came  the  alighting.  Here  was  the  city,  different  and 
yet  the  same.  But  where  was  the  great  family  carriage,  with  fold 
ing  steps  and  noble  bays,  the  driver  in  livery,  the  footman  to  hold 


270  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

the  door?  Where  were  father  and  friends?  No  human  being  came 
to  greet  her.1 

She  went  to  the  hotel,  locked  herself  in  hei<  room,  and  then  Gambia 
gave  way  for  the  first  time  in  a  generation  to  tears. 

But  she  was  eminently  a  practical  woman.  She  had  not  come  to 
America  to  weep.  The  emotion  soon  passed.  At  her  request  a  file 
of  recent  papers  was  laid  before  her,  and  she  went  through  them 
carefully.  She  found  that  which  she  had  not  looked  for. 


CHAPTER  LII. 
DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY. 

It  was  the  morning  succeeding  the  trial,  one  of  those  southern  days 
that  the  late  fall  steals  from  summer  and  tempts  the  birds  to  sing 
in  the  woodlands.  Gen.  Evan  had  borne  Virdow  and  Edward  in 
triumph  to  The  Cedars  and,  after  breakfast.  Edward  had  ridden 
over  to  The  Hall,  leaving  the  two  old  men  together.  Virdow  interested 
his  host  with  accurate  descriptions  of  the  great  battles  between  the 
Germans  and  the  French;  and  Evan  in  turn  gave  him  vivid  accounts 
of  the  mighty  Virginia  struggles  between  Federals  and  Confederates. 

When  they  finally  came  to  Edward  as  a  topic  the  German  was 
eloquent.  He  placed  him  beside  himself  in  learning  and  ahead  of 
all  amateurs  as  artist  and  musician. 

"Mr.  Morgan  agreed  with  me  in  his  estimate  of  Edward,"  Virdow 
said.  "They  were  warm  friends.  Edward  reciprocated  the  affection 
bestowed  upon  him;  in  Europe  they  traveled  much — " 

"Of  what  Mr.  Morgan  do  you  speak?"    The  general  was  puzzled. 

"The  elder,  Mr.  John  Morgan,  I  think.  But  what  am  I  saying^ 
I  mean  Abingdon." 

"Abingdon?  I  do  not  know  him."  Virdow  reflected  a  moment. 

"Abingdon  was  the  name  by  which  Edward  new  John  Morgan  in 
Europe.  They  met  annually  and  were  inseparable  companions." 

"John  Morgan — our  John  Morgan?" 

"Yes.  I  am  told  he  was  very  eccentric,  and  this  was  probably  a 
whim.  But  it  enabled  him  to  study  the  character  of  his  relative. 
He  seems  to  have  been  satisfied,  and  who  wouldn't?" 


DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY  271 

"You  astound  me.  I  had  never  heard  'that  John  Morgan  went  to 
Europe.  I  did  hear  that  he  went  annually  to  Canada,  for  the  summer 
months;  that  is  all." 

"Edward  never  knew  of  the  connection  until  he  came  here  and  saw 
a  picture  of  John  Morgan,  drawn  by  Gerald.  We  both  recognized  it 
instantly."  Evan  was  silent,  thinking  upon  this  curious  information. 
At  last  he  asked: 

"Was  Edward  Mr.  Morgan's  only  intimate  companion?" 

"The  only  one." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  why  Mr.  Morgan  concealed  his\  identity  under 
an  assumed  name?" 

"No.  We  did  not  connect  Abingdon  with  John  Morgan  until 
letters  were  returned  with  information  that  Abingdon  was  dead; 
and  then  Gerald  drew  his  picture  from  memory." 

And  as  these  two  old  gentlemen  chattered  about  him,  Edward 
himself  was  approaching  the  Montjoys. 

He  found  Mary  upon  the  porch;  his  horse's  feet  had  announced 
his  coming.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  a  glad  light  shone  in  her 
eyes.  She  gave  him  her  hand  without  words;  she  had  intended 
expressing  her  pleasure  and  her  congratulations,  but  when  the  time 
came  the  words  were  impossible. 

"You  have  been  anxious."  he  said,  reading  her  silence. 

"Yes,  she  replied;  "I  could  not  doubt1  you.  but  there  are  so  mar^ 
things  involved,  and  I  had  no  one  to  talk  with.  It  was  a  long  sus 
pense,  but  women  have  to  learn  such  lessons,"  and  then  she  added, 
seeing  that  he  was  silent:  "It  was  the  most  unhappy  day  of  my 
life:  papa  was  gone,  and  poor  mamma's  eyes  have  troubled  her  so 
.nuch.  She  has  bandaged  them  again  and  stays  in  her  room.  The 
day  seemed  never-ending.  When  papa  came  he  was  pale  and  hag 
gard,  and  his  face  deceived  me.  I  thought  that  something  had  gone 
wrong — some  mistake  had  occurred  and  you  were  in  trouble,  but 
papa  was  ill,,  and  the  news — "  She  turned  her  face  away  suddenly, 
feeling  the  tears  starting. 

Edward  drew  her  up  to  a  settee  under  a  spreading  oak,  and  seat 
ing  himself  beside  her  told  her  much  of  his  life's  story — his  doubts, 
his  hopes,  his  fears.  She  held  her  breath  as  he  entered  upon  his 
experience  at  Ilexhurst  and  Gerald's  life  and  identity  were  dwelt 
upon. 

"This,"  said  he  at  last,  "is  your  right  to  know,  fit  is  due  to  me. 
I  cannot  let  you  misjudge  the  individual.  While  I  am  convinced, 


272  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

that  does  not  make  a  doubt  a  fact  and  on  it  I  cannot  build  a  future. 
You  have  my  history,  and  you  know  that  in  the  heart  of  Edward 
Morgan  you  alone  have  any  part.  The  world  holds  no  other  woman 
for  me,  nor  ever  will;  but  therq  is  the  end.  'If  I  stayed  by  you  the 
day  would  come  when  this  love  would  sweep  away  every  resolu 
tion,  every  sense  of  duty,  every  instinct  of  my  mind,  except  the 
instinct  to  love  you,  and  for  this  reason  I  have  come  to  say  that 
until  life  holds  no  mystery  for  Edward  Morgan  he  will  be  an 
exile  from,  you."  .  » 

The  girl's  head  was  sunk  upon  her  arms  as  it  rested  upon  the 
settee.  She  did  not  lift  her  face.  What  could  she  i  answer  to  such 
a  revelation,  such  a  declaration?  After  a  while  he  ceased  to  walk 
the  gravel  floor  of  their  arbor,  and  stood  by  her.  Unconsciously  he 
let  his  hand  rest  upon  the  brown  curls.  "This  does  not  mean,"  he 
said,  very  gently,  "that  I  am  going  away  to  mope  and  wear  out  life 
in  idle  regrets.  Marion  Evan  lives;  I  will  find  her.  And  then — and 
then — if  she  bids  me,  I  will  come  back,  and  with!  a  clean  record  ask 
you  to  be  my  wife.  Answer  me,  my  love,  my  only  love — let  me 
say  these  words  this  once — answer  me;  is  this  the  course  that  an 
honorable  man  should  pursue?" 

She  rose  then  and  faced  him  proudly.  His  words  had  thrilled 
her  soul. 

"It  is.  I  could  never  love  you,  Edward,  if  you  could  offer  less.  I 
have  no  doubt  in  my  mind — none.  A  woman's  heart  knows  without 
argument,  and  I  knowv  that  you  will  come  to  me  some  day.  God  be 
with  you  till  we  meet  again — and  for  all  time  and  eternity.  This 
will  be  my  prayer." 

Without  object,  the  silent  couple,  busy  with  their  thoughts,  entered 
the  living-room.  The  colonel  was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  his  paper 
dropped  from  his  listless  hand,  his  eyes  closed.  The  Duchess  in  his 
lap  had  fallen  asleep,  holding  the  old  open-faced  watch  and  its 
mystery  of  the  little  boy  within  who  cracked  hickory  nuts.  They 
made  a  pretty  picture — youth  and  old  age,  early  spring  and  late 
winter.  Mary  lifted  her  hand  warningly. 

"Softly,"  she  said;  "they  sleep;  don't  disturb  them."  Edward 
looked  closely  into  the  face  of  the  old  man,  and  then  to  the  surprise 
of  the  girl  placed  his  arm  about  her  waist. 

"Do  not  cry  out,"  he  said;  "keep  calm  and  remember  that  the 
little  mamma's  health — " 

"What   do   you    mean?"   she   said,   looking  with   wonder   into  his 


DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY  273 

agitated  face  as  she  sought  gently  to  free  herself.  "Have  you 
forgotten " 

"This  is  sleep  indeed — but  the  sleep  of  eternity." 

She  sprang  from  him  with  sudden  terror  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
the  cold  forehead  of  her  father.  For  an  instant  she  stared  into  his 
face,  with  straining  eyes,  and  then  with  one  frightful  scream  she 
sank  by  his  side,  uttering  his  name  in  agonized  tones. 

Edward  strove  tearfully  to  calm  her;  it  was  too  late.  Calling 
upon  husband  and  daughter  frantically,  M'rs.  Mont  joy  rushed  from 
her  room  into  the  presence  of  death.  She  was  blindfolded,  but  with 
unerring  instinct  she  found  the  still  form  and  touched  the  dead 
face.  The  touch  revealed  the  truth;  with  one  quick  motion  she  tore 
away  the  bandages  from  her  face,  and  then  in  sudden  awe  the  words 
fell  from  her: 

"I  am  blind!"  Mary  had  risen  to  her  side  and  was  clinging  to 
her,  and  Edward  had  assisted,  fearing  she  might  fall  to  the  floor. 
But  with  the  consciousness  of  her  last  misfortune  had  soon  come 
calmness.  She  heeded  not  the  cries  of  the  girl  appealing  to  her,  but 
knelt  with  her  white  face  lifted  and  said  simply: 

"Dear  Father,  Thou  art  merciful ;  I  have  not  seen  him  dead !  Blest 
forever  be  Thy  Holy  name!"  Edward  turned  his  back  and  stood 
with  bowed  head,  the  silence  broken  now  only  by  the  sobs  of  the 
daughter.  Still  sleeping  in  the  lap  of  the  dead,  her  chubby  hand 
clasping  the  wonderful  toy,  was  the  Duchess,  and  at  her  feet  the 
streaming  sunlight.  The  little  boy  came  to  the  door  riding  the  old 
man's  gold-headed  cane  for  a  horse  and  carrying  the  cow  horn,  which 
he  had  pushed  from  its  nail  upon  the)  porch. 

"Grandpa,  ain't  it  time  to  blow  the  horn?"  he  said.  "Grandma,  why 
don't  grandpa  wake  up?"  She  drew  him  to  her  breast  and  silenced 
his  queries. 

And  still  with  a  half-smile  upon  his  patrician  face — the  face  that 
women  and  children  loved  and  all  men  honored — sat  the  colonel;  one 
more  leaf  from  the  old  south  blown  to  earth. 

The  little  girl  awoke  at  last,  sat  up  and  caught  sight  of  the  watch. 

"Look,  gamma.  Little  boy  in  deir  cackin'  hickeynut,"  and  she 
placed  the  jewel  against  the  ear  of  the  kneeling  woman. 

That  peculiarly  placid  expression,  driven  away  in  the  moment  of 
dissolution,  had  returned  to  the  dead  man;  he  seemed  to  hear  the 
Duchess  prattle  and  the  familiar  demand  for  music  upon  the  horn. 

Isham  had  responded  to  the  outcry  and  rushed  in.     With  a  sob 


274  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

he  had  stood  by  the  body  a  moment  and  then  gone  out  shaking  his 
head  and  moaning.  And  then,  as  they  waited,  there  rang  out  upon 
the  clear  morning'  air  the  plantation  bell — not  the  merry  call  to 
labor  and  the  sweet  summons  to  rest,  which  every  animal  on  the 
plantation  knew  and  loved,  but  a  solemn  tolling,  significant  in  its 
measured  volume. 

And  over  the  distant  fields  where  the  hands  were  finishing  their 
labors,  the  solemn  sounds  came  floating.  Old  Peter  lifted  his  head. 
"Who  dat  ring  dat  bell  dis  time  er  day?"  he  said,  curiously;  and 
then,  under  the  lessening  volume  of  the  breeze,  the  sound  fell  to 
almost  silence,  to  rise  again  stronger  than  before  and  float  with 
sonorous  meaning. 

At  long  intervals  they  had  heard  it.  It  always  marked  a  change 
in  their  lives. 

One  or  two  of  the  men  began  to  move  doubtfully  toward  the  house, 
and  others  followed,  increasing  their  pace  as  the  persistent  alarm  was 
sounded,  until  some  were  running.  And  thus  they  came  to  where  old 
Isham  tolled  the  bell,  his  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears. 

"Old  marster's  gone!  Old  marster's  gone!"  he  called  to  the  first, 
and  the  words  went  down  the  line  and  were  carried  to  the  "quarters," 
which  soon  gave  back  the  death  chant  from  excited  women.  The 
negroes  edged  into  the  yard  and  into  the  hall,  and  then  some  of  the 
oldest  into  the  solemn  presence  of  the  dead,  gazing  in  silence  upon 
the  sad,  white  face  and  closed  eyes. 

Then  there  was  a  tumult  in  yard  and  hall;  a  shuffling  of  feet 
announced  a  newcomer.  Mammy  Phyllis,  walking  with  the  aid  of  a 
staff,  entered  the  room  and  stood  by  the  side  of  the  dead  man.  Every 
voice  was  still;  here  was  the  woman  who  had  nursed  him  and  who 
had  raised  him;  hers  was  the  right  to  a  superior  grief.  She  gazed 
long  and  tenderly  into  the  face  of  her  foster-child  and  master  and 
turned  away,  but  she  came  again  and  laid  her  withered  hand  upon 
his  forehead.  This  time  she  went,  to  come  no  more.  In  the  room  of 
the  bereaved  wife  she  took  her  seat,  to  stay  a  silent  comforter  for 
days.  Her  own  grief  found  never  a  voice  or  a  tear. 

One  by  one  the  negroes  followed  her;  they  passed  in  front  of  the 
sleeper,  looked  steadily,  silently,  into  his  face  and  went  out.  Some 
touched  him  with  the  tips  of  their  fingers,  doubtfully,  pathetically. 
For  them,  although  not  realized  fully,  it  was  the  passing  of  the  old 
regime.  It  was  the  first  step  into  that  life  where  none  but  strangers 
dwelt,  where  there  was  no  sympathy,  no  understanding.  Some  would 
drift  into  cities  to  die  of  disease,  some  to  distant  cabins,  to  grow  old 


275 

alone.     One  day  the  last  of  the  slaves  would   lie  face  up  and  the 
old  south  would  be  no  more. 

None  was  left  but  one.  Edward  came  at  last  and  stood  before 
his  host.  Long  and  thoughtfully  he  gazed  and  then  passed  out.  He 
had  place  in  neither  the  old  nor  the  new.  But  the  dead  man  had 
been  his  friend.  He  would  not  forget  it. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON. 

When  Amos  Royson's  senses  returned  to  him  he  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  a  room  in  the  county  jail.  The  whirl  in  his  head, 
wherein  had  mingled  the  faces  of  men,  trees,  buildings  and  patches 
of  sky  illumined  with  flashes  of  intensest  light  and  vocal  with  a 
multitude  of  cries — these,  the  rush  of  thoughts  and  the  pressure 
upon  his  arteries,  had  ceased.  He  looked  about  him  in  wonder.  Was 
it  all  a  dream?  From  the  rear  of  the  building,  where  in  their  cage 
the  negro  prisoners  were  confined  came  a  mighty  chorus,  "Swing 
low,  sweet  chariot,"  making  more  intense  the  silence  of  his  own 
room.  That  was  not  of  a  dream,  nor  were  the  bare  walls,  nor  the 
barred  windows.  His  hands  nervously  clutching  his  lapels  touched 
something  cold  and  wet.  He  lifted  them  to  the  light;  they  were 
Woody!  He  made  no  outcry  when  he  saw  this,  but  stood  a  long 
minute  gazing  upon  them,  his  face  wearing  in  that  half  shadow  a 
confession  of  guilt.  And  in  that  minute  all  the  facts  of  the  day  stood 
forth,  clear  cut  and  distinct,  and  his  situation  unfolded  itself.  He 
was  a  murderer,  a  perjurer  and  a  conspirator.  Not  a  human  being 
in  all  that  city  would  dare  to  call  him  friend. 

The  life  of  this  man  had  been  secretly  bad;  he  had  deluded  him 
self  with  maxims  and  rules  of  gentility.  He  was,  in  fact,  no  worse 
at  that  moment  in  jail  than  he  had  been  at  heart  for  years.  But 
now  he  had  been  suddenly  exposed;  the  causes  he  had  set  in  motion 
had  produced  a  natural  but'  unexpected  climax,  and  it  is  a  fact  that 
in  all  the  world  there  was  no  man  more  surprised  to  find  that  Amos 
Royson  was  a  villain  than  Royson  himself.  He  was  stunned  at 
:  then  came  rage;  a  blind,  increasing  rebellion  of  spirit  unused 


276  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

to  defeat.  He  threw  himself  against  the  facts  that  hemmed  him  in 
as  a  wild  animal  against  its  cage,  but  he  could  not  shake  them.  They 
were  still  facts.  He  was  doomed  by  them.  Then  a  tide  of  grief 
overwhelmed  him;  his  heart  opened  back  into  childhood;  he  plunged 
face  down  upon  his  bed;  silent,  oblivious  to  time,  and  to  the  jailer's 
offer  of  food  returning  no  reply.  Despair  had  received  him!  A 
weapon  at  hand  then  would  have  ended  the  career  of  Amos  Royson. 

Time  passed.  No  human  being  from  the  outer  world  called  upon 
him.  Counsel  came  at  last,  in  answer  to  his  request,  and  a  line  of 
defense  had  been  agreed  upon.  Temporary  insanity  would  be  set 
up  in  the  murder  case,  but  even  if  this  were  successful,  trials  for 
perjury  and  conspiracy  must  follow.  The  chances  were  against  his 
acquittal  in  any,  and  the  most  hopeful  view  he  could  take  was 
imprisonment  for  life. 

For  life !  How  often,  as  solicitor,  he  had  heard  the  sentence  descend 
upon  the  poor  wretches  he  prosecuted.  And  not  one  was  as  guilty 
as  he.  This  was  the  deliberate  verdict  of  the  fairest  judge  known 
to  man —  the  convicting  instincts  of  the  soul  that  tries  its  baser  self. 

At  the  hands  of  the  jailer  Royson  received  the  best  possible 
treatment.  He  was  given  the  commodious  front  room  and  allowed 
every  reasonably  freedom.  This  officer  was  the  sheriff's  deputy,  and 
both  offices  were  political  plums.  The  prisoner  had  largely  shaped 
local  politics  and  had  procured  for  him  the  the  sheriff's  bondsmen. 
Officeholders  are  not  ungrateful — when  the  office  is  elective. 

The  front  room  meant  much  to  a  prisoner;  it  gave  him  glimpses 
into  the  free,  busy  world  outside,  with  its  seemingly  happy  men 
and  women,  with  its  voices  of  school  children  and  musical  cries  of 
street  vendors. 

This  spot,  the  window  of  his  room^  became  Royson's  life.  He 
stood  there  hour  after  hour,  only  withdrawing  in  shame  when  he  saw 
a  'familiar  face  upon  the  street.  And  standing  there  one  afternoon, 
just  before  dark,  he  beheld  Annie's  little  vehicle  stop  in  front  of  the 
jail.  She  descended,  and  as  she  came  doubtfully  forward  she  caught 
sight  of  his  face.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  black  and  wore  a  heavy 
crepe  veil.  There  was  a  few  minutes'  delay,  then  the  room  door 
opened  and  Annie  was  coming  slowly  toward  him,  her  veil  thrown 
back,  her  face  pale  and  her  hand  doubtfully  extended.  He  looked 
upon  her  coldly  without  changing  his  position. 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  he  said,  at  length,  when  she  stood  silent  before 
him. 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON  277 

Whatever  had  been  the  emotion  of  the  woman,  it,  too,  passed  with 
the  sound  of  his  sentence. 

"I  would  not  quarrel  with  you,  Amos,  and  I  might  do  so  if  I  an 
swered  that  question  as  it  deserves.  I  have  but  a  few  minutes  to  stop 
here  and  will  not  waste  them  upon  the  past.  The  question  is  now 
as  to  the  future.  Have  you  any  plan?" 

"None,"  he  replied,  with  a  sneer.  "I  am  beyond  plans.  Life  is  not 
worth  living  if  I  were  out,  and  the  game  is  now  not  worth  the  candle." 
The  woman  stood  silent. 

"What  are  your  chances  for  acquittal?"  she  asked,  after  a  long 
silence. 

"Acquittal!  Absolutely  none!  Life  itself  may  by  a  hard  struggle 
be  saved.  After  that,  it  is  the  asylum  or  the  mines." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then?  Well,  then  I  shall  again  ask  my  loving  cousin  to  bring 
me  a  powder.  I  will  remind  her  once  more  that  no  Royson  ever  wore 
chains  or  a  halter,  however  much  they  may  have  deserved  them.  And 
for  the  sake  of  her  children  she  will  consent."  She  walked  to  the 
corridor  door  and  listened  and  then  came  back  to  him.  He  smiled 
and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"Amos,"  she  whispered,  hurriedly;  "God  forgive  me,  but  I  have 
brought  it.  I  am  going  to  New  York  tomorrow,  and  the  chance  may 
not  come  again.  Remember,  it  is  at  your  request."  She  was  fumbling 
nervously  at  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  "The  morphine  I  could  not  get 
without  attracting  attention,  but  the  chloroform  I  had.  I  give  it  to 
you  for  use  only  when  life — "  He  had  taken  the  bottle  and  was 
quietly  looking  upon  the  white  liquid. 

"I  thank  you,  cousin,"  he  said,  quietly,  with  a  ghastly  little  laugh. 
"I  have  no  doubt  but  that  I  can  be  spared  from  /the  family  gather 
ings  and  that  in  days  to  come  perhaps  some  one  will  occasionally  say 
'poor  Amos,'  when  my  fate  is  recalled.  Thanks,  a  thousand  thanks! 
Strange,  'but  the  thought  of  death  actually  gives  me  new  life."  He 
looked  upon  her  critically  a  moment  and  then  a  new  smile  dawned 
upon  his  face. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "your  note  about  Morgan;  it  will  be  unfortunate  if 
that  ever  comes  to  light.  You  were  not  smart,  Annie.  You  could 
have  bought  that  with  this  bottle."  She  flushed  in  turn  and  bit  her 
lip.  The  old  ;Annie  was  still  dominant. 

"It  would  have  been  better  since  Mr.  Morgan  is  to  be  my  brother- 
in-law.  Still  if  there  is  no  love  between  us  it  will  not  matter  greatly. 


278  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Mary  seems  to  be  willing  to  furnish  all  the  affection  he  will  need." 

"Where  is  he?"  he  asked,  hoarsely,  not  attempting  to  disguise  his 
suffering.  She  was  now  relentless. 

"Oh,  at  Ilexhurst,  I  suppose.  The  general  is  to  care  for  the  old 
German  until  the  household  is  arranged  again  and  everything  made 
ready  for  the  bride." 

"Is  the   marriage   certain?" 

She  smiled  cheerfully.  "Oh,  yes.  It  is  to  take  place  soon,  and  then 
they  are  going  to  Europe  for  a  year."  And  then  as,  white  with  rage, 
he  steadied  himself  against  the  window,  she  said:  "Mary  insisted  upon 
writing  a  line  to  you;  there  it  is.  If  you  can  get  any  comfort  from 
it,  you  are  welcome." 

He  took  the  note  and  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  never  removing  his 
eyes  from  her  face.  A  ray  had  fallen  into  the  blackness  of  his 
despair.  It  grew  and  brightened  until  it  lighted  his  soul  with  a  splen 
dor  that  shone  from  his  eyes  and  trembled  upon  every  lineament  of 
his  face.  Not  a  word  had  indicated  its  presence.  It  was  the  silent 
expression  of  a  hope  and  a  desperate  resolve.  The  woman  saw  it 
and  drew  back  in  alarm.  A  suspicion  that  he  was  really  insane 
came  upon  her  mind,  and  she  was  alone,  helpless  and  shut  in  with 
a  maniac.  A  wild  desire  to  scream  and  flee  overwhelmed  (her;  she 
turned  toward  the  door  and  in  a  'minute  would  have  been  gone. 

But  the  man  had  read  her  correctly.  He  seized  her,  clapped  his 
hand  over  her  mouth,  lifted  her  as  he  would  a  child  and  thrust  her 
backward  on  the  bed.  Before  she  could  tear  the  grip  from  her  mouth, 
he  had  drawn  the  cork  with  his  teeth  and  drenched  the  pillow-case 
with  chloroform.  There  was  one  faint  cry  as  he  moved  his  hand, 
but  the  next  instant  the  drug  was  in  her  nostrils  and  lungs.  She 
struggled  frantically,  then  faintly,  and  then  lay  powerless  at  the 
mercy  of  the  man  bending  over  her. 

Hardly  more  than  two  minutes  had  passed,  but  'In  that  time  Amos 
Royson  was  transformed.  He  had  a  chance  for  life  and  that  makes 
men  of  cowards.  He  stripped  away  the  outer  garments  of  the  woman 
and  arrayed  himself  in  them,  adding  the  bonnet  and  heavy  veil,  and 
then  turned  to  go.  He  was  cool  now  and  careful.  He  went  to  the 
bed  and  drew  the  cover  over  the  prostrate  form.  He  had  occupied  the 
same  place  in  the  same  attitude  for  hours.  The  jailer  would  come, 
offer  supper  from  the  door  and  go  away.  He  would,  if  he  got  out, 
have  the  whole  night  for  flight.  And  he  would  need  it.  The  morn 
might  bring1- no  waking  to  the  silent  form.  The  thought  chilled  his 


n  U"" 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON  279 

blood,  but  it  also  added  speed  to  his  movements.  He  drew  off  the 
pillow-case,  rolled  it  into  a  ball  and  dropped  it  out  of  the  window. 
He  had  seen  the  woman  approach  with  veil  down  and  handkerchief  to 
her  face.  It  was  his  cue.  He  bent  his  head,  pressed  his  handkerchief 
to  his  eyes  beneath  the  veil  and  went  below.  The  jailer  let  the  bent, 
sob-shaken  figure  in  and  then  out  of  the  office.  The  higher  class  sel 
dom  came  there.  He  stood  bareheaded  until  the  visitor  climbed  into 
the  vehicle  and  drove  awey. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  only  that  Royson  restrained  him 
self  and  suffered  the  little  mare  to  keep  a  moderate  pace.  Fifteen 
minutes  ago  a  hopeless  prisoner,  and  now  free!  Life  is  full  of1  sur 
prises.  But  where?  Positively  the  situation  had  shaped  itself  so 
rapidly  he  had  not  the  slightest  plan  in  mind.  He  was  free  and  hurry 
ing  into  the  country  without  a  hat  and  dressed  in  a  woman's  garb! 

The  twilight  had  deepened  into  gloom.  How  long  would  it  be  before 
pusuit  began?  And  should  he  keep  on  the  disguise?  He  slipped  out 
of  it  to  be  ready  for  rapid  flight,  and  then  upon  a  second  thought  put 
it  on  again.  He  might  be  met  and  recognized.  His  whole  manner  had 
undergone  a  change;  he  was  now  nervous  and  excited,  and  the  horse, 
unconciously  urged  along,  was  running,  at  full  speed.  A  half -hour  at 
that  rate  would  bear  him  to  The  Hall.  Cursing  his  imprudence,  he 
checked  the  animal  and  drove  on  more  moderately  and  finally  stopped. 
He  could  not  think  intelligently.  Should  he  go  on  to  The  Hall  and 
throw  himself  upon  the  mercy  of  his  connections?  They  would  be 
bound  to  save  him.  Mary !  Ah,  Mary !  And  then  the  note  thrust  it 
self  in  mind.  With  feverish  haste  he  searched  for  and  drew  it  out. 
He  tore  off  the  envelope  and  helped  by  a  flickering  match  he  read: 

"You  must  have  suffered  before  you  could  have  sinned  so,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  Believe  me,  however  others  may  judge  you,  there  is  no 
resentment  but  only  forgiveness  for  you  in  the  heart  of  Mary." 

Then  the  tumult  within  him  died  away.  No  man  can  say  what  that 
little  note  did  for  Amos  Royson  that  night.  He  would  go  to  her,  to  this 
generous  girl,  and  ask  her  aid.  But  Annie !  What  if  that  forced  sleep 
should  deepen  into  death !  Who  could  extricate  her?  How  would  Mary 
arrange  that?  She  would  get  Morgan.  He  could  not  refuse  her  any 
thing.  He  could  not  falter  when  the  family  name  and  family  honor 
were  at  stake.  He  could  not  let  his  wife — his  wife !  A  cry  burst  from 
the  lips  of  the  desperate , man.  His  wife!  Yes,  he  would  go  to  him, 
but  not  for  help.  Amos  Royson  might  die  or  escape — but  the  triumph 
of  this  man  should  be  short-lived. 


280  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

The  mare  began  running  again;  he  drew  rein  with  a  violence  that 
brought  the  animal's  front  feet  high  in  air  and  almost  threw  her  to 
the  ground.  A  new  idea  had  been  born;  he  almost  shouted  over  it. 
He  tore  off  the  woman's  garb,  dropped  it  in  the  buggy,  sprang  out 
and  let  the  animal  go.  In  an  instant  the  vehicle  was  out  of  sight  in 
the  dark  woods,  and  Royson  was  running  the  other  way.  For  the  idea 
born  in  his  mind  was  this: 

"Of  all  the  places  in  the  world  for  me  the  safest  is  Ilexhurst — if — " 
He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  breast.  The  bottle  was  still  safe!  And 
Annie!  The  horse  returning  would  lead  to  her  release. 

Amos  Royson  had  a  general  knowledge  of  the  situation  at  Ilexhurst. 
At  12  o'clock  he  entered  through  the  glass-room  and  made  his  way 
to  the  body  of  the  house.  He  was  familiar  with  the  lower  floor.  The 
upper  he  could  guess  at.  He  must  first  find  the  occupied  room,  and 
so,  taking  off  his  shoes,  he  noiselessly  ascended  the  stairway.  He 
passed  first  into  the  boy's  room  and  tried  the  door  to  that  known  as 
the  mother's,  but  it  was  locked.  He  listened  there  long  and  intently, 
but  heard  no  sound  except  the  thumping  of  his  own  heart.  Then  he 
crossed  the  hall  and  there,  upon  a  bed  in  the  front  room,  dimly  visible 
in  the  starlight,  was  the  man  he  sought. 

The  discovery  of  his  vjctim,  helpless  and  completely  within  his  power, 
marked  a  crisis  in  the  mental  progress  of  Royson.  He  broke  down  and 
trembled  violently,  not  from  conscience,  but  from  a  realization  of  the 
fact  that  his  escape  was  now  an  accomplished  fact.  This  man  before 
him  disposed  of,  Ilexhurst  was  his  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time. 
Here  he  could  rest  and  prepare  for  a  distant  flight.  No  one,  probably, 
would  come,  but  should  anyone  come,  why,  the  house  was  unoccupied. 
The  mood  passed;  he  went  back  to  the  hall,  drew  out  his  handkerchief 
and  saturated  it  with  liquid  from  the  bottle  in  his  pocket.  A  distant 
tapping  alarmed  him,  and  he  drew  deeper  into  the  shadow.  Some  one 
seemed  knocking  at  a  rear  door.  Or  was  it  a  rat  with  a  nut  in  the 
wall?  All  old  houses  have  them.  No;  it  was  the  tapping  of  a  friendly 
tree  upon  the  weather  boards,  or  a  ventilator  in  the  garret.  So  he 
reasoned.  There  came  a  strange  sensation  upon  his  brain,  a  sweet, 
sickening  taste  in  his  mouth  and  dizziness.  He  cast  the  cloth  far  away 
and  rushed  to  the  stair,  his  heart  beating  violently.  He  had  almost 
chloroformed  himself  while  listening  to  his  coward  fears. 

The  dizziness  passed  away,  but  left  him  unnerved.  He  dared  not 
walk  now.  He  crawled  to  the  cloth  and  thence  into  the  room.  Near 
the  bed  he  lifted  his  head  a  little  and  saw  the  white  face  of  the  sleeper 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON  281 

turned  to  him.  He  raised  the  cloth  and  held  it  ready;  there  would 
be  a  struggle,  and  it  would  be  desperate.  Would  he  fail?  Was  he 
not  already  weakened?  He  let  it  fall  gently  in  front  of  the  sleeper's 
face,  and  then  inch  by  inch  pushed  it  nearer.  Over  his  own  senses 
he  felt  the  languor  stealing;  how  was  it  with  the  other?  The  long 
regular  inspirations  ceased,  the  man  slept  profoundly  and  noiselessly 
— the  first  stage  of  unconsciousness.  The  man  on  the  floor  crawled 
to  the  window  and  laid  his  pale  cheek  upon  the  sill. 

How  long  Royson  knelt  he  never  knew.  He  stood  up  at  last  with 
throbbing  temples,  but  steadier.  He  went  up  to  the  sleeper  and 
shook  him — gently  at  first,  then  violently.  The  drug  had  done  its 
work. 

Then  came  the  search  for  more  matches  and  then  light.  And 
there  upon  the  side  table,  leaning  against  the  wall,  was  the  picture 
that  Gerald  had  drawn;  the  face  of  Mary,  severe  and  noble,  the  fine 
eyes  gazing  straight  into  his. 

He  had  not  thought  out  his  plans.  It  ig  true  that  the  house  was 
his  for  days,  if  he  wished  it,  but  how  about  the  figure  upon  the  bed? 
Could  he  occupy  that  building  with  such  a  tenant?  It  seemed  to  him 
the  sleeper  moved.  Quickly  wetting  the  handkerchief  again  he  laid 
it  upon  the  cold  lips,  with  a  towel  over  it  Jo  lessen  evaporation. 
And  as  he  turned,  the  eyes  of  the  picture  followed  him.  He  must  have 
money  to  assist  his  escape;  the  sleeper's  clothing  was  there.  He  lifted 
the  garments.  An  irresistible  power  drew  his  attention  to  the  little 
table,  and  there,  still  fixed  upon  him,  were  the  calm,  proud  eyes  of  the 
girl.  Angrily  he  cast  aside  the  clothing.  The  eyes  still  held  him  In 
their  power,  and  now  they  were  scornful.  They  seemed  to  measure 
and  weigh  him:  Amos  Royson,  murderer,  perjurer,  conspirator — thief ! 
The  words  were  spoken  somewhere;  they  became  vocal  in  that  still 
room.  Terrified,  he  looked  to  the  man  upon  the  bed  and  there  he  ?aw 
the  eyes,  half-open,  fixed  upon  him  and  the  towel  moving  above  the 
contemptuous  lips.  With  one  bound  he  passed  from  the  room,  down 
the  steps,  toward  the  door.  Anywhere  to  be  out  of  that  room,  that 
house ! 


282  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

•  •  *  •> 

HOW  A  DEBT  WAS  PAID. 

On  went  the  spirited  mare  to  The  Hall,  skillfully  avoiding  obstruc 
tions,  and  drew  up  at  last  before  the  big  gate.  She  had  not  been 
gentle  in  her  approach,  and  old  Isham  was  out  in  the  night  holding 
her  bit  and  talking  to  her  before  she  realized  that  her  coming  had  not 
been  expected. 

"De  Lord  bless  yer,  horse,  whar  you  be'n  an'  what  you  done  wid 
young  missus?"  Mary  was  now  out  on  the  porch. 

"What  is  it,  Isham?" 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  come  hyar,  missy.  Dis  hyar  fool  horse  done 
come  erlong  back  'thout  young  missus,  an'  I  spec'  he  done  los'  her  out 
in  de  road  somewhar — "  Mary  caught  sight  of  the  dress  and  bonnet 
and  greatly  alarmed  drew  them  out.  What  could  have  happened? 
Why  was  Annie's  bonnet  and  clothing  in  the  buggy?  For  an  instant 
her  heart  stood  still. 

Her  presence  of  mind  soon  returned.  Her  mother  had  retired,  and 
so,  putting  the  maid  on  guard,  she  came  out  and  with  Isham  beside 
her,  turned  the  horse's  head  back  toward  the  city.  But  as  mile  after 
mile  passed  nothing  explained  the  mystery.  There  was  no  dark 
form  by  the  roadside.  At  no  place  did  the  intelligent  animal  scent 
blood  and  turn  aside.  It  was  likely  that  Annie  had  gone  to  spend  the 
night  with  a  friend,  as  she  declared  sne  would  if  the  hour  were  too 
late  to  enter  the  jail.  But  the  clothing! 

The  girl  drove  within  sight  of  the  prison,  but  could  not  bring  her 
self,  at  that  hour,  to  stop  there.  She  passed  on  to  Annie's  friends. 
She  had  not  been  there.  She  tried  others  with  no  better  success.  And 
now,  thoroughly  convinced  that  something  terrible  had  occurred,  she 
drove  on  to  Ilexhurst.  As  the  tired  mare  climbed  the  hill  and  Mary 
saw  the  light  shining  from  the  upper  window,  she  began  to  realize 
that  the  situation  was  not  very  much  improved.  After  all,  Annie's 
disappearance  might  be  easily  explained  and  how  she  would  sneer 
at  her  readiness  to  run  to  Mr.  Morgan!  It  was  the  thought  of  a 
rery  young  girl. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  She  drew  rein  before  the  iron 
gate  and  boldly  entered,  leaving  Isham  with  the  vehicle.  She  rapidly 


HOW  A  DEBT  WAS  PAID  283 

traversed  the  walk,  ascended  the  steps  and  was  reaching  out  for  the 
knocker,  when  the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  and  a  man  ran 
violently  against  her.  She  was  almost  hurled  to  the  ground,  but 
frightened  as  she  was,  it  was  evident  that  the  accidental  meeting 
had  affected  the  other  more.  He  staggered  back  into  the  hall  and 
stood  irresolute  and  white  with  terror.  She  came  forward  amazed 
and  only  half  believing  the  testimony  of  her  senses. 

"Mr.  Royson!"  The  man  drew  a  deep  breath  and  put  his  hand 
upon  a  chair,  nodding  his  head.  He  had  for  the  moment  lost  the 
power  of  speech. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked.  "Why  are  you —  here?  Where 
is  Mr.  Morgan?"  His  ghastliness  returned.  He  wavered  above  the 
chair  and  then  sank  into  it.  Then  he  turned  his  face  toward  hers  in 
silence.  She  read  something  there,  as  in  a  book.  She  did  not  cry 
out,  but  went  and  caught  his  arm  and  hung  above  him  with  white  face. 
"You  have  not — oh,  no,  you  have  not — "  She  could  say  no  more. 
She  caught  his  hand  and  looked  dumbly  upon  it.  The  man  drew  it 
away  violently  as  the  horror  of  memory  came  upon  him. 

"Not  that  way!"  he  said. 

"Ah,  not  that  way!  Speak  to  me,  Mr.  Royson — tell  me  you  do  not 

mean  it — he  is  not "  The  whisper  died  out  in  that  dim  hall.  He 

turned  his  face  away  a  moment  and  then  looked  back.  Lifting  his 
hand  he  pointed  up  the  stairway.  She  left  him  and  staggered  up  the 
steps  slowly,  painfully,  holding  by  the  rail;  weighed  upon  by  the 
horror  above  and  the  horror  below.  Near  the  top  she  stopped  and 
looked  back;  the  man  was  watching  her  as  if  fascinated.  She  went 
on ;  he  arose  and  followed  her.  He  found  her  leaning  against  the  door 
afraid  to  enter;  her  eyes  riveted  upon  a  form  stretched  upon  the 
bed,  a  cloth  over  its  face;  a  strange  sweet  odor  in  the  air.  He  came 
and  paused  by  her  side,  probably  insane,  for  he  was  smiling  now. 

"Behold  the  bridegroom,"  he  said.  "Go  to  him;  he  is  not  dead.  He 
has  been  waiting  for  you.  Why  are  you  so  late?"  She  heard  only  two 
words  clearly.  "Not  dead!" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  laughed;  not  dead,  He  only  sleeps,  with  a  cloth  and 
chloroform  upon  his  face.  He  in  not  dead!"  With  a  movement  swift 
as  a  bounding  deer,  she  sprang  across  the  room,  seized  the  cloth  and 
hurled  it  from  the  window.  She  added  names  that  her  maiden  cheeks 
would  have  paled  at,  and  pressed  her  face  to  his,  kissing  the  still  and 
silent  lips  and  moaning  piteously. 

The  man  at  the  door  drew  away  suddenly,  went  to  the  stairway 


284  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  passed  down.  No  sound  was  heard  now  in  the  house  except  the 
moaning  of  the  girl  upstairs.  He  put  on  a  hat  in  the  hall  below, 
closed  the  door  cautiously  and  prepared  to  depart  as  he  had  come, 
when  again  he  paused  irresolute.  Then  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
crumpled  paper  and  read  it.  And  there,  under  that  one  jet  which  fell 
upon  him  in  the  great  hall,  something  was  born  that  night  in  the 
heart  of  Amos  Royson — something  that  proved  him  for  the  moment 
akin  to  the  gods.  The  girl  had  glided  down  the  steps  and  was  fleeing 
past  him  for  succor.  He  caught  her  arm. 

"Wait,"  he  said  gently.  "I  will  help  you!"  She  ceased  to  struggle 
and  looked  appealingly  into  his  face.  "I  have  not  much  to  say,  but 
it  is  for  eternity.  The  man  upstairs  is  now  in  no  immediate  danger. 
Mary,  I  have  loved  you  as  I  did  not  believe  myself  capable  of  loving 
anyone.  It  is  the  glorious  spot  in  the  desert  of  my  nature.  I  have 
been  remorseless  with  men;  it  all  seemed  war  to  me,  a  war  of  Ishmae- 
lites — civilized  war  is  an  absurdity.  Had  you  found  anything  in  me 
to  love,  I  believe  it  would  have  made  me  another  man,  but  you  did 
not.  And  none  can  blame  you.  Tonight,  for  every  kind  word  you 
have  spoken  to  Amos  Royson,  for  the  note  you  sent  him  today,  he 
will  repay  you  a  thousandfold.  Come  with  me."  He  half-lifted  her 
up  the  steps  and  to  the  room  of  the  sleeper.  Then  wringing  out 
wet  towels  he  bathed  the  face  and  neck  of  the  unconscious  man,  rubbed 
the  cold  wrists  and  feet  and  forced  cold  water  into  the  mouth.  It 
was  a  doubtful  half-hour,  but  at  last  the  sleeper  stirred  and  moaned. 
Then  Royson  paused. 

"He  will  awaken  presently.  Give  me  half  an  hour  to  get  into  a 
batteau  on  the  river  and  then  you  may  tell  him  all.  That — "  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  looking  out  of  the  window,  through  which  was  coming 
the  distant  clamor  of  bells — "that  indicates  that  Annie  has  waked  and 
screamed.  And  now  good-by.  I  could  have  taken  your  lover's  life." 
He  picked  up  the  picture  from  the  table,  kissed  it  once  and  passed  out. 

Mary  was  alone  with  her  lover.  Gradually  under  her  hand  con 
sciousness  came  back  and  he  realized  that  the  face  in  the  light  by 
him  was  not  of  dreams  but  of  life  itself — that  life  which,  but  for 
her  and  the  gentleness  of  her  woman's  heart,  would  have  passed  out 
that  night  at  Ilexhurst. 

And  as  he  drifted  back  again  into  consciousness  under  the  willows 
of  the  creeping  river  a  little  boat  drifted  toward  the  sea. 

Dawn  was  upon  the  eastern  hills  when  Mary,  with  her  rescued 
sister-in-law,  crept  noiselessly  into  The  Hall.  It  was  in  New  York 


THE  UNOPENED  LETTER  285 

that  the  latter  read  the  account  of  her  mortification.     Norton  was 
not  there.     She  had  passed  him  in  her  flight. 


CHAPTER  LV. 
THE  UNOPENED  LETTER. 

Soon  it  became  known  that  Col.  Montjoy  had  gone  to  his  final  judg 
ment.  Then  came  the  old  friends  of  his  young  manhood  out  of 
their  retreats;  the  country  for  twenty  miles  about  gave  them  up  to 
the  occasion.  They  brought  with  them  all  that  was  left  of  the  old 
times — courtesy,  sympathy  and  dignity. 

There  were  soldiers  among  them,  and  here  and  there  an  empty 
sleeve  and  a  scarred  face.  There  was  simply  one  less  in  their  ranks. 
Another  would  follow,  and  another;  the  morrow  held  the  mystery  for 
the  next. 

Norton  had  returned.  He  was  violently  affected,  after  the  fashion 
of  mercurial  temperaments.  On  Edward  by  accident  had  fallen  the 
arrangements  for  the  funeral,  and  with  the  advice  of  the  general  he 
had  managed  them  well.  Fate  seemed  to  make  him  a  member  of  that 
household  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  general  was  made  an  honorary  pall-bearer,  and  when  the  pro 
cession  moved  at  last  into  the  city  and  to  the  church,  without  fore 
thought  it  fell  to  Edward — there  was  no  one  else — to  support  and 
sustain  the  daughter  of  the  house.  It  seemed  a  matter  of  course  that 
he  should  do  this,  and  as  they  followed  the  coffin  up  the  aisle,  be 
tween  the  two  ranks  of  people  gathered  there,  the  fact  was  noted  in 
silence  to  be  discussed  later.  This  then,  read  the  universal  verdict, 
was  the  sequel  of  a  romance. 

But  Edward  thought  of  none  of  these  things.  The  loving  heart 
of  the  girl  was  convulsed  with  grief.  Since  childhood  she  had  been 
the  idol  of  her  father,  and  between  them  had  never  come  a  cloud.  To 
her  that  white-haired  father  represented  the  best  of  manhood.  Ed 
ward  almost  lifted  her  to  and  from  the  carriage,  and  her  weight  was 
heavy  upon  his  arm  as  they  followed  the  coffin. 

But  the  end  came;  beautiful  voices  had  lifted  the  wounded  hearts 
to  heaven  and  the  minister  had  implored  its  benediction  upon  them. 


286  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

The  soul-harrowing  sound  of  the  clay  upon  the  coffin  had  followed 
and  all  was  over. 

Edward  found  himself  alone  in  the  carriage  with  Mary,  and  the 
ride  was  long.  He  did  not  know  how  to  lead  the  troubled  mind  away 
from  its  horror  and  teach  it  to  cling  to  the  unchanging  rocks  of 
faith.  The  girl  had  sunk  down  behind  her  veil  in  the  corner  of 
the  coach;  her  white  hands  lay  upon  her  lap.  He  took  these  in  his 
own  firm  clasp  and  held  them  tightly.  It  seemed  natural  that  he 
should;  she  did  not  withdraw  them;  she  may  not  have  known  it. 

And  so  they  came  back  home  to  where  the  brave  little  wife,  who 
had  promised  "though  He  slay  me  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him,"  sat  among 
the  shadows  keeping  her  promise.  The  first  shock  had  passed  and 
after  that  the  faith  and  serene  confidence  of  the  woman  were  never 
disturbed.  She  would  have  died  at  the  stake  the  same  way. 

The  days  that  followed  were  uneventful,  Norton  had  recovered  his 
composure  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost  it,  and  discussed  the  situation 
freely.  There  was  now  no  one  to  manage  the  place  and  he  could  not 
determine  what  was  to  be  done.  In  the  meantime  he  was  obliged  to 
return  to  business,  and  look  after  his  wife.  He  went  first  to  Edward 
and  thanking  him  for  his  kindness  to  mother  and  sister,  hurried  back 
to  New  York.  Edward  had  spent  one  more  day  with  the  Montjoys  at 
Norton's  request,  and  now  he,  too,  took  his  departure. 

When  Edward  parted  from  Mary  and  the  blind  mother  he  had 
recourse  to  his  sternest  stoicism  to  restrain  himself.  He  escaped  an 
awkward  situation  by  promising  to  be  gone  only  two  days  before 
coming  again.  At  home  he  found  Virdow  philosophically  composed 
and  engaged  in  the  library,  a  new  sevanti  having  been  provided,  and 
everything  proceeding  smoothly.  Edward  went  to  him  and  said, 
abruptly : 

"When  is  it  your  steamer  sails,  Herr  Virdow?" 

"One  week  from  today,"  said  that  individual,  not  a  little  surprised 
at  his  friend's  manner.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  I  go  with  you,  never  again  in  all  likelihood  to  enter  Ameri 
ca.  From  today,  then,  you  will  excuse  my  absences.  I  have  many 
affairs  to  settle." 

Virdow  heard  him  in  silence,  but  presently  he  asked: 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  now,  Edward." 

"I  am  satisfied  that  I  am  the  son  of  Marion  Evan,  but  I  will  have 
undoubted  and  unmistakable  proof  before  I  set  foot  in  this  community 
again!  There  is  little  chance  to  obtain  it.  Nearly  thirty  years — it 


THE  UNOPENED  LETTER  287 

is  a  long  time,  and  the  back  trail  is  covered  up." 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

'To  employ  the  best  detectives  the  world  can  afford,  and  give  them 
carte  blanche." 

"But  why  this  search?  Is  it  not  better  to  rest  under  your  belief 
and  take  life  quietly?  There  are  many  new  branches  of  science  and 
philosophy — you  have  a  quick  mind,  you  are  young — why  not  come  with 
mp  and  put  acide  the  mere  details  of  existence?  There  are  greater 
truths  worth  knowing,  Edward,  than  the  mere  truth  of  one's  an 
cestry."  Edward  looked  long  and  sadly  into  his  face  and  shook  his 
head. 

"These  mere  facts,"  he  said  at  length,  "mean  everything  with  me." 
He  went  to  his  room;  there  were  hours  of  silence  and  then  Virdow 
heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  old  house  the  sound  of  Gerald's  violin, 
for  Edward's  had  been  left  in  Mary's  care.  His  philosophy  could  not 
resist  the  Fatherland  appeal  that  floated  down  the  great  hall  and 
filled  the  night  with  weird  and  tender  melody.  For  the  man  who 
played  worshipped  as  he  drew  the  bow. 

But  silence  came  deep  over  Ilexhurst  and  Virdow  slept.  Not  so 
Edward;  he  was  to  begin  his  great  search  that  night.  He  went  to 
the  wing-room  and  the  glass-room  and  flooded  them  with  light. 
A  thrill  struck  through  him  as  he  surveyed  again  the  scene  and 
seemed  to  see  the  wild  face  of  his  comrade  pale  in  death  upon  the 
divan.  There  under  that  rod  still  pointing  significantly  down  to  the 
steel  disk  he  had  died.  And  outside  in  the  darkness  had  Rita  also 
died.  He  alone  was  left.  The  drama  could  not  be  long  now.  There 
was  but  one  actor. 

He  searched  among  all  the  heaps  of  memoranda  and  writings  upon 
the  desk.  They  were  memoranda  and  notes  upon  experiments  and 
queries.  Edward  touched  them  one  by  one  to  the  gas  jet  and  saw 
them  flame  and  blacken  into  ashes,  and  now  nothing  was  left  but 
the  portfolio — and  that  contained  but  four  pictures — the  faces  of 
Slippery  Dick,  himself  and  Mary  and  the  strange  scene  at  the  church. 
One  only  was  valuable — the  face  of  the  girl  which  he  knew  he  had 
given  to  the  artist  upon  the  tune  he  had  played.  This  one  he  took, 
and  restored  the  others. 

He  had  turned  out  the  light  in  the  glass-room,  and  was  approaching 
the  jet  in  the  wing-room  to  extinguish  it,  when  upon  the  mantel  he  saw 
a  letter  which  bore  the  address  "H.  Abingdon,  care  John  Morgan," 
unopened.  How  long  it  had  been  there  no  one  was  left  to  tell.  The 


288  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

postman,  weary  of  knocking,  had  probably  brought  it  around  to  the 
glass- room;  or  the  servant  had  left  it  with  Gerald.  It  was  addressed 
by  a  woman's  hand  and  bore  the  postmark  of  Paris,  with  the  date 
illegible.  It  was  a  hurried  note: 

"Dear  Friend:  What  has  happened?  When  you  were  called  home 
so  suddenly,  you  wrote  me  that  you  had  important  news  to  communi 
cate  if  you  could  overcome  certain  scruples,  and  that  you  would  re 
turn  immediately,  or  as  soon  as  pressing  litigation  involving  large 
interests  was  settled,  and  in  your  postscript  you  added  'keep  up  your 
courage.'  You  may  imagine  how  I  have  waited  and  watched,  and 
read  and  reread  the  precious  note.  But  months  have  passed  and  I 
have  not  heard  from  you.  Are  you  ill?  I  will  come  to  you.  Are 
you  still  at  work  upon  my  interests?  Write  to  me  and  relieve  the 
strain  and  anxiety.  I  would  not  hurry  you,  but  remember  it  is  a 
mother  who  waits.  Yours,  Gambia." 

"Gambia  1"  Edward  repeated  the  name  aloud.  Gambia.  A  flood 
of  thoughts  rushed  over  him.  What  was  Gambia — John  Morgan  to 
him?  The  veil  was  lifting.  And  then  came  a  startling  realization. 
Gambia,  the  wife  of  Gaspard  Levigne! 

"God  in  heaven,"  he  said,  fervently,  "help  me  now!"  Virdow  was 
gone;  only  the  solemn  memories  of  the  room  kept  him  company.  He 
sank  upon  the  divan  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  If  Gambia  was 
the  woman,  then  the  man  who  had  died  in  his  arms — the  exile,  the 
iron-scarred,  but  innocent,  convict,  the  hero  who  passed  in  silence — was 
her  husband!  And  he?  The  great  musician  had  given  him  not  only 
the  violin  but  genius!  Gambia  had  begged  of  his  dying  breath  proofs 
of  marriage.  The  paling  lips  had  moved  to  reply  in  vain. 

The  mystery  was  laid  bare;  the  father  would  not  claim  him,  because 
of  his  scars,  and  the  mother — she  dared  not  look  him  in  the  face  with 
the  veil  lifted!  But  he  would  face  her;  he  would  know  the  worst; 
nothing  could  be  more  terrible  than  the  mystery  that  was  crushing 
the  better  side  of  his  life  and  making  hope  impossible.  He  would 
face  her  and  demand  the  secret. 


"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU!"        289 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU?" 

Edward  had  formed  a  definite  determination  and  made  his  arrange 
ments  at  once.  There  had  been  a  coolness  between  him  and  Eldridge 
since  the  publication  of  the  Royson  letter,  but  necessity  drove  him  to 
that  lawyer  to  conclude  his  arrangements  for  departure.  It  was  a 
different  man  that  entered  the  lawyer's  office  this  time.  He  gave 
directions  for  the  disposition  of  Ilexhurst  and  the  conversion  of  other 
property  into  cash.  He  would  never  live  on  the  place  again  under 
any  circumstances. 

His  business  was  to  be  managed  by  the  old  legal  firm  in  New  York. 

The  memoranda  was  completed  and  he  took  his  departure. 

He  had  given  orders  for  flowers  and  ascertained  by  telephone  that 
they  were  ready.  At  3  o'clock  he  met  Mary  driving  in  and  took 
his  seat  beside  her  in  the  old  family  carriage.  Her  dress  of  black 
brought  out  the  pale,  sweet  face  in  all  its  beauty.  She  flushed  slightly 
as  he  greeted  her.  Within  the  vehicle  were  only  the  few  roses  she 
had  been  able  to  gather,  with  cedar  and  uonimous.  But  they  drove 
by  a  green  house  and  he  filled  the  carriage  with  the  choicest  produc 
tions  of  the  florist,  and  then  gave  the  order  to  the  driver  to  proceed 
at  once  to  the  cemetery. 

Within  the  grounds,  where  many  monuments  marked  the  last  rest 
ing-place  of  the  old  family,  was  the  plain  newly  made  mound  cover 
ing  the  remains  of  friend  and  father.  At  sight  if  it  Mary's  calmness 
disappeared  and  her  grief  overran  its  restraints.  Edward  stood 
silent,  his  face  averted. 

Presently  he  thought  of  the  flowers  and  brought  them  to  her.  In 
the  arrangement  of  these  the  bare  sod  disappeared  and  the  girl's  grief 
was  calmed.  She  lingered  long  about  the  spot,  and  before  she  left  it 
knelt  in  silent  prayer,  Edward  lifting  his  hat  and  waiting  with  bowed 
head. 

The  sad  ceremony  ended,  she  looked  to  him  and  he  led  the  way  to 
where  old  Isham  waited  with  the  carriage.  He  sent  him  around  toward 
Gerald's  grave,  under  a  wide-spreading  live  oak,  while  they  went 
afoot  by  the  direct  way  impassable  for  vehicles.  They  reached  the 
parapet  and  would  have  crossed  it,  when  they  saw  kneeling  at  the  head 


290  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

of  the  grave  a  woman  dressed  in  black,  seemingly  engaged  in  prayer. 
Edward  had  caused  to  be  placed  above  the  remains  a  simple  marble 
slab,  which  bore  the  brief  inscription: 

GERALD  MORGAN. 
Died  1888. 

They  watched  until  the  woman  arose  and  laid  a  wreath  upon  the 
slab.  When  at  last  she  turned  her  face  and  surveyed  the  scene  they 
saw  before  them,  pale  and  grief-stricken,  Gambia.  Edward  felt  the 
scene  whirling  about  him  and  his  tongue  paralyzed.  Gambia,  at 
sight  of  them  gave  way  again  to  a  grief  that  had  left  her  pale  and 
haggard,  and  could  only  extend  the  free  hand,  while  with  the  other 
she  sought  to  conceal  her  face.  Edward  came  near,  his  voice  scarcely 
audible. 

"Gambia!"  he  exclaimed  in  wonder;  "Gambia!"  she  nodded  her 
head. 

"Yes,  wretched,  unhappy  Gambia!" 

"Then,  madame,"  he  said,  with  deep  emotion,  pointing  to  the 
grave  and  touching  her  arm,  "what  was  he  to  you?"  She  looked 
him  fairly  in  the  face  from  streaming  eyes. 

"He  was  my  son!     It  cannot  harm  him  now.    Alas,  poor  Gambia!" 

"Your  son!"  The  man  gazed  about  him  bewildered.  "Your  son, 
madame?  You  are  mistaken!  It  cannot  be!" 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed;  "how  little  you  know.    It  can  be — it  is  true!" 

"It  cannot  be;  it  cannot  be!"  the  words  of  the;  horrified  man  were 
now  a  whisper. 

"Do  you  think  a  mother  does  not  know  her  offspring?  Your  talk 
is  idle;  Gerald  Morgan  was  my  son.  I  have  known,  John  Morgan 
knew " 

"But  Rita,"  he  said,  piteously. 

"Ah,  Rita,  poor  Rita,  she  could  not  know!" 

The  manner,  the  words,  the  tone  overwhelmed  him.  He  turned 
to  Mary  for  help  in  his  despair.  Almost  without  sound  she  had  sunk 
to  the  grass  and  now  lay  extended  at  full  length.  With  a  fierce  excla 
mation  Edward  rushed  to  her  and  lifted  the  little  figure  in  his  arms. 
Gambia  was  at  his  side. 

"What  is  this?  What  was  she  to  him?"  some  explanation  was 
necessary  and  Edward's  presence  of  mind  returne.d 

"He  loved  her,"  he  said.     The  face  of  Gambia  grew  soft  and  tender 


"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU!"  291 

and  she  spread  her  wrap  on  the  rustic  bench. 

"Place  her  here  and  bring  water.  Daughter,"  she  exclaimed,  kneel 
ing  by  her  side,  "come,  come,  this  will  never  do — "  The  girl's  eyes 
opened  and  for  a  moment  rested  in  wonder  upon  Gambia.  Then  she 
remembered.  A  strange  expression  settled  upon  her  face  as  she  gazed 
quickly  upon  Edward. 

"Take  me  home,  madame,"  she  said;  "take  me  home.  I  am  deathly 
ill." 

They  carried  her  to  the  carriage,  and,  entering,  Gambia  took  the 
little  head  in  her  lap.  Shocked  and  now  greatly  alarmed,  Edward  gave 
orders  to  the  driver  and  entered.  It  was  a  long  and  weary  ride,  and 
all  the  time  the  girl  lay  silent  and  speechless  in  Gambia's  lap,  now 
and  then  turning  upon  Edward  an  indescribable  look  that  cut  him  to 
the  heart. 

They  would  have  provided  for  her  in  the  city,  but  she  would  not 
hear  of  it.  Her  agitation  became  so  great  that  Edward  finally  direct 
ed  the  driver  to  return  to  The  Hall.  All  the  way  back  the  older 
woman  murmured  words  of  comfort  and  cheer,  but  the  girl  only  wept 
and  her  slender  form  shook  with  sobs.  And  it  was  not  for  herself 
that  she  grieved. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  house,  and  Mary,  by  a  supreme  effort, 
was  able  to  walk  with  assistance  and  to  enter  without  disturbing  the 
household.  Gambia  supported  her  as  they  reached  the  hall  to  the 
room  that  had  been  Mary's  all  her  life — the  room  opposite  her  mother's. 
There  in  silence  she  assisted  the  girl  to  the  bed.  From  somewhere 
came  Molly,  the  maid,  and  together  using  the  remedies  that  women 
know  so  well  they  made  her  comfortable.  No  one  in  the  house  had 
been  disturbed,  and  then  as  Mary  slept  Gambia  went)  out  and  found 
her  way  to  the  side  of  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  felt  the  bereaved  woman's 
arms  about  her. 

"You  have  reconsidered,  and  wisely,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  when 
the  first  burst  of  emotion  was  over.  "I  am  glad  you  have  come — where 
is  Mary?" 

"She  was  fatigued  from  the  excitement  and  long  drive  and  is  in 
her  room.  I  met  her  in  town  and  came  with  her.  But  madame,  think 
not  of  me;  you  are  now  the  sufferer;  my  troubles  are  old.  But  you 
— what  can  I  say  to  comfort  you?" 

"I  am  at  peace,  my  child ;  God's  will  be  done.  When  you  can  say 
that  you  will  not  feel  even  the  weight  of  your  sorrows.  Life  is  not 
long,  at  best,  end  mine)  must  necessarily  be  short.  Some  'day  I  will 


292  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

see  again."  Gambia  bowed  her  head  until  it  rested  upon  the  hand 
that  clasped  hers.  In  the  presence  of  such  trust  and  courage  she 
was  a  child. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  after  a  silence,  her  mind  revert 
ing  to  her  visitor's  remark;  "she  is  not  ill?" 

"Not  seriously,  madame,  but  still  she  is  not  well." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  her1  if  you  will  lend  me  your  aid.  I  am  not  yet 
accustomed  to  finding  my  way.  I  suppose  I  will  have  no  trouble  after 
a  while."  The  strong  arm  of  the  younger  woman  clasped  and  guided 
her  upon  the  little  journey,  and  the  mother  took  the  place  of  the  maid. 
Tea  was  brought  to  them  and  in  the  half-lighted  room  they  sat  by 
the  now  sleeping  figure  on  the  bed,  and  whispered  of  Gambia's  past 
and  future.  The  hours  passed.  The  house  had  grown  still  and  Molly 
had  been  sent  to  tell  Edward  of  the  situation  and  give  him  his  lamp. 

But  Edward  was  not  alone.  The  general  had  ridden  over  to  inquire 
after  his  neighbors  and  together  they  sat  upon  the  veranda  and 
talked,  and  Edward  listened  or  seemed  to  listen.  The  rush  of  thoughts, 
the  realization  that  had  come  over  him  at  the  cemetery,  now  that 
necessity  for  immediate  action  had  passed  with  his  charge,  returned. 
Gambia  had  been  found  weeping  over  her  son,  and  that  son  was 
Gerald.  True  or  untrue,  it  was  fatal  to  him  if  Gambia  was  convinced. 

But  it  could  not  be  less  than  true;  he,  Edward,  was  an  outcast  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth;  his  dream  was  over;  through  these  bitter  re 
flections  the  voice  of  the  general  rose  and  fell  monotonously,  as  he 
spoke  feelingly  of  the  dead  friend  whom  he  had  known  since  child 
hood  and  told  of  their  long  associations  and  adventures  in  the  war. 
And  then,  as  Edward  sought  to  bring  himself  back  to  the  present, 
he  found  himself  growing  hot  and  cold  and  his  heart  beating  violently; 
the  consequences  of  the  revelation  made  in  the  cemetery  had  extended 
no  further  than  himself  and  his  own  people,  but  Gambia  was  Marion 
Evan!  And  her  father  was  there,  by  him,  ignorant  that  in  the  house 
was  the  daughter  dead  to  him  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
He  could  not  control  an  exclamation.  The  speaker  paused  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Did  you  speak?"    The  general  waited  courteously. 

"Did  I?  It  must  have  been  involuntarily — a  habit!  You  were  say 
ing  that  the  colonel  led  his  regiment  at  Malvern  Hill."  Evan  regarded 
him  seriously. 

"Yes,  I  mentioned  that  some  time  ago.  He  was  wounded  and  re 
ceived  the  praise  of  Jackson  as  he  was  borne  past  him.  I  think  Mont- 


"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU!"  293 

joy  considered  that  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life.  ,  When  Jackson 
praised  a  man  he  was  apt  to  be  worthy  of  it.  He  praised  me  once," 
he  said,  half-smiling  over  the  scene  in  mind. 

But  Edward  had  again  lost  the  thread  of  the  narrative.  Gambia 
had  returned;  a  revelation  would  follow;  the  general  would  meet  his 
daughter,  and  over  the  grave  of  Gerald  the  past  would  disappear  from 
their  lives.  What  was  to  become  of  him?  He  remembered  that  John 
Morgan  had  corresponded  with  her,  and  communicated  personally. 
She  must  know  his  history.  In  the  coming  denouement  there  would 
ba  a  shock  for  him.  He  would  see  these  friends  torn  from  him,  not 
harshly  nor  unkindly,  but  between  them  and  him  would  fall  the  iron 
rule  of  caste,  which  has  never  been  broken  in  the  south — the  race  law, 
which  no  man  can  override.  With  something  like  a  panic  within  he 
decided!  at  once.  He  would  not  witness  the  meeting.  He  would  give 
them  no  chance  to  touch  him  by  sympathetic  pity  and  by — aversion. 
It  should  all  come  to  him  by  letter,  while  he  was  far  away!  His 
affairs  were  in  order.  The  next  day  he  would  be  gone. 

"General,"  he  said,  "will  you  do  me  a  favor?  I  must  return  to  the 
city ;  my  coming  was  altogether  a  matter  of  accident,  and  I  am  afraid 
it  will  inconvenience  our  friends  here  at  this  time  to  send  me  back. 
Let  me  have  your  horse,  and,  I  will  send  him  to  you  in  the  morning." 

The  abrupt  interruption  filled  the  old  man  with  surprise. 

"Why,  certainly,  if  you  must  go.  But  I  thought  you  had  no  idea 
of  returning — is  it  imperative?" 

"Imperative.  I  am  going  away  from  the  city  tomorrow,  and  there 
are  yet  matters — you  understand,  and  Virdow  is  expecting  me.  I 
trust  it  will  not  inconvenience  you  greatly.  It  would  be  well,  probably, 
if  one  of  us  stayed  tonight;  this  sudden  illness — the  family's  con 
dition " 

"Inconvenience!  Nonsense!  If  you  must  go,  why,  the  horse  is 
yours  of  course  as  long  as  you  need  him."  But  still  perplexed  the 
general  waited  in  silence  for  a  more  definite  explanation.  Edward 
was  half-facing  the  doorway  and  the  lighted  hall  was  exposed  to  him, 
but  the  shadow  of  the  porch  hid  him  from  anyone  within.  It  was 
while  they  sat  thus  that  the  old  man  felt  a  hand  upon  his  arm  and 
a  grasp  that  made  him  wince-  Looking  up  he  saw  the  face  of  his 
companion  fixed  on  some  object  in  the  hall,  the  eyes  starting  from 
their  sockets.  Glancing  back  he  became  the  witness  of  a  picture  that 
almost  caused  his  heart  to  stand  still. 


294  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORDS. 

The  records  of  John  Morgan's  life  are  fragmentary.  It  was  only 
by  joining  the  pieces  and>  filling  in  the  gaps  that  his  friends  obtained 
a  dear  and  rounded  conception  of  his  true  character  and  knew  at 
last  the  real  man. 

Born  about  1820,  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  and  influential  father, 
his  possibilities  seemed  almost  unlimited.  To  such  a  youth  the  pecu 
liar  system  of  the  South  gave  advantages  not  at  that  time  afforded 
by  any  other  section.  The  South  was  approaching  the  zenith  of  its 
power;  its  slaves  did  the  field  work  of  the  whole  people,  leaving  their 
owners  leisure  for  study,  for  travel  and  for  display.  Politics  fur 
nished  the  popular1  field  for  endeavor;  young  men  trained  to  the  bar, 
polished  by  study  and  foreign  travel  and  inspired  by  lofty  ideals  of 
government,  threw  themselves  into  public  life,  with  results  that  have 
become  now  a  part  of  history. 

At  22,  John  Morgan  was  something  more  than  a  mere  promise.  He 
had  graduated  with  high  honors  at  the  Virginia  University  and  re 
turning  home  had  engaged  in  the  practice  of  law — his  maiden  speech, 
delivered  in  a  murder  case,  winning  for  him  a  wide  reputation.  But 
at  that  critical  period  a  change  came  over  him.  To  the  surprise  of 
his  contemporaries  he  neglected  his  growing  practice,  declined  legisla 
tive  honors  and  gradually  withdrew  to  the  quiet  of  Ilexhurst,  re 
maining  in  strict  retirement  with  his  mother. 

The  life  of  this  gentlewoman  had  never  been  a  very  happy  one; 
refined  and  delicate  she  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  her  husband,  who, 
from  the  handsome,  darkhaired  gallant  she  first  met  at  the  White 
Sulphur  Springs,  soon  developed  into  a  generous  liver,  with  a  marked 
leaning  towards  strong  drink,  fox-hunting  and  cards.  As  the  wife,  in 
the  crucible  of  life,  grew  to  pure  gold,  the  grosser  pleasures  developed 
the  elder  Morgan  out  of  all  likeness  to  the  figure  around  which  clung 
her  girlish  memories. 

But  Providence  had  given  to  her  a  boy,  and  in  him  there  was  a 
promise  of  happier  days.  He  grew  up  under  her  care,  passionately 
devoted  to  the  beautiful  mother,  and  his  triumphs  at  college  and  at 
the  bar  brought  back  to  her  something  of  the  happiness  she  had 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORD  295 

known  in  dreams  only. 

The  blow  had  come  with  the  arrival  of  Rita  Morgan's  mother. , 
From  that  time  John  Morgan  devoted  himself  to  the  lonely  wife,' 
avoiding  the  society  of  both  sexes.    His  morbid  imagination  pictured  ; 
his  mother  and  himself  as  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  public,  uncon-  / 
scious  of  the  fact  that  the  public  had  but  little  interest  in  the  domes 
tic  situation  at  Ilexhurst,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  truth.  He  lived  his 
quiet  life  by  her  side  in  the  little  room  at  home,  and  when  at  last, 
hurt  by  his  horse,  the  father  passed  away,  he  closed  up  the  house 
and  took  his  mother  abroad  for  a  stay  of  several  years.    When  they 
returned  life  went  on  very  much  as  before. 

But  of  the  man  who  came  back  from  college  little  was  left,  aside 
from  an ' indomitable  will  and  a  genius  for  work.  He  threw  himself 
into  the  practice  of  his  profession  again,  with  a  feverish  desire  for 
occupation,  and,  bringing  to  his  aid  a  mind  well  stored  by  long  years 
of  reflection  and  reading,  soon  secured  a  large  and  lucrative  practice. 

His  fancy  was  for  the  criminal  law.  No  pains,  no  expense  was  too 
great  for  him  where  a  point  was  to  be  made.  Some  of  his  witnesses 
in  noted  cases  cost  him  for  traveling  expense  and  detectives  double 
his  fee.  He  kept  up  the  fight  with  a  species  of  fierce  joy,  his  only 
moments  of  elation,  as  far  as  the  public  knew,  being  the  moments 
of  victory. 

So  it  was  that  at  40  years  of  age  John  Morgan  found  himself  with 
a  reputation  extending  far  beyond  the  state  and  with  a  practice 
that  left  him  but  little  leisure.  It  was  about  this  time  he  accidentally 
met  Marion  Evan,  a  mere*  girl,  and  felt  the  hidden  springs  of  youth 
rise  in  his  heart.  Marion  Evan  received  the  attentions  of  the  great 
criminal  lawyer  without  suspicion  of  their  meaning. 

When  it  developed  that  he  was  deeply  interested  in  her  she  was 
astonished  and  then  touched.  It  was  until  the  end  a  matter  of  wonder 
to  her  that  John  Morgan  should  have  found  anything  in  her  to  admire 
and  love,  but  those  who  looked  on  knowingly  were  not  surprised.  Of 
gentle  ways  and  clinging,  dependent  nature,  varied  by  flashes  of  her 
father's  fire  and  spirit,  she  presented  those  variable  moods  well  cal- 
culated  to  dazzle  and  impress  a  man  of  Morgan's  temperament.  He 
entered  upon  his  courtship  with  the  same  carefulness  and  determi 
nation  that  marked  his  legal  practice,  and  with  the  aid  of  his  wealth 
and  reborn  eloquence  carried  the  citadel  of  her  maiden  heart  by  storm. 
With  misgivings  Albert  Evan  yielded  his  consent. 

But  Marion  Evan's  education  was  far  from  complete.    The  matur* 


296  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

lover  wished  his  bride  to  have  every  accomplishment  that  could  add 
to  her  pleasure  in  life;  he  intended  to  travel  for  some  years  and  she 
was  not  at  that  time  sufficiently  advanced  in  the  languages  to  inter 
pret  the  records  of  the  past.  Her  art  was  of  course  rudimentary. 
Only  in  vocal  music  was  she  distinguished;  already  that  voice  which 
was  to  develop  such  surprising  powers  spoke  its  thrilling  message  to 
those  who  could  understand,  and  John  Morgan  was  one  of  these. 

So  it  was  determined  that  Marion  should  for  one  year  at  least  de 
vote  herself  to  study  and  then  the  marriage  would  take  place.  Where 
to  send  her  was  the  important  question,  and  upon  the  decision  hinges 
this  narrative. 

Remote  causes  shape  our  destinies.  That  summer  John  Morgan 
took  his  mother  abroad  for  the  last  time  and  in  Paris  chance  gave 
him  acquaintance  with  Gaspard  Levigne,  a  man  nearly  as  old  as  him 
self.  Morgan  had  been  touched  and  impressed  by  the  unchanging 
sadness  of  a  face  that  daily  looked  into  his  at  their  hotel,  but  it  is 
likely  that  he  would  have  carried  it  in  memory  for  a  few  weeks  only 
had  not  the  owner,  who  occupied  rooms  near  his  own,  played  the 
violin  one  night  while  he  sat  dreaming  of  home  and  the  young  girl 
who  had  given  him  her  promise.  He  felt  that  the  hidden  musician 
was  saying  for  him  that  which  had  been  crying  out  for  expression 
in  his  heart  all  his  life.  Upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  entered 
this  stranger's  room  and  extended  his  hand.  Gaspard  Levigne  took 
it.  They  were  friends. 

During  their  stay  in  Paris  the  two  men  became  almost  inseparable 
companions.  One  day  Gaspard  was  in  the  parlor  of  his  new  friend, 
when  John  Morgan  uncovered  upon  the  table  a  marble  bust  of  his 
fiancee  and  briefly  explained  the  situation.  The  musician  lifted  it 
in  wonder  and  studied  its  perfections  with  breathless  interest.  From 
that  time  he  never  tired  of  the  beautiful  face,  but  always  his  'admi 
ration  was  mute.  His  lips  seemed  to  lose  their  power. 

The  climax  came  when  John  Morgan,  entering  the  dim  room  one 
evening,  found  Gaspard  Levigne  with  his  face  in  his  hands  kneeling 
before  the  marble,  convulsed  with  grief.  And  then  little  by  little  he 
told  his  story.  He  was  of  noble  blood,  the  elder  son  of  a  family,  poor 
but  proud  and  exclusive.  Unto  him  had  descended,  from  an  Italian 
ancestor,  the  genius  of  musical  composition  and  a  marvelous  technique, 
while  his  brother  seemed  to  inherit  the  pride  and  arrogance  of  the 
Silesian  side  of  the  house,  with  about  all  the  practical  sense  and 
business  ability  that  had  been  won  and  transmitted. 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORD  297 

He  had  fallen  blindly  in  love  with  a  young  girl  beneath  him  in 
the  social  scale,  and*  whose  only  dowry  was  a  pure  heart  and!  singu 
larly  perfect  beauty.  The  discovery  of  this  situation  filled  the  family 
with  alarm  and  strenuous  efforts  were  made  to  divert  the  infatuated 
man,  but  without  changing  his  purpose.  Pressure  was  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  girl's  parents,  with  better  success. 

Nothing  now  remained  for  Gaspard  but  an  elopement,  and  this  he 
planned.  He  took  his  brother  into  his  confidence  and  was  pleased  to 
find  him  after  many  refusals  a  valuable  second.  The  elopement  took 
place  and  assisted  by  the  brother  he  came  to  Paris.  There  his  wife 
had  died  leaving  a  boy,  then  nearly  two  years  old. 

Then  came  the  denouement;  the  marriage  arranged  for  him  had 
been  a  mockery. 

It  was  a  fearful  blow.  He  did  not  return  to  his  home.  Upon  him 
had  been  saddled  the  whole  crime. 

When  the  story  was  ended  Gaspard  went  to  his  room  and  brought 
back  a  little  picture  of  the  girl,  which  he  placed  by  the  marble  bust. 
Morgan  read  his  meaning  there;  the  two  faces  seemed  identical.  The 
picture  would  have  stood  for  a  likeness  of  Marion  Evan,  in  her 
father's  hands. 

The  conduct  of  Gaspard  Levigne  upon  the  discovery  of  the  cruel 
fraud  was  such  as  won  the  instant  sympathy  of  the  American,  whose 
best  years  had  been  sacrificed  for  his  mother.  The  musician  had  not 
returned  to  Breslau  and  exposed  the  treachery  of  the  brother  who 
was  the  idol  of  his  parents;  he  sufferred  in  silence  and  cared  for  the 
child  in  an  institution  near  Paris.  But  John  Morgan  went  and  quietly 
verified  the  facts.  He  engaged  the  ablest  counsel  and  did  his  best  to 
find  a  way  to  right  the  wrong. 

Then  came  good  Mrs.  Morgan,  who  took  the  waif  to  her  heart. 
He  passed  from  his  father's  arms,  his  only  inheritance  a  mother's 
picture,  of  which  his  own  face  was  the  miniature. 

Months  passed;  Gaspard  Levigne  learned  English  readily,  and  one 
more  result  of  the  meeting  in  Paris  was  that  John  Morgan  upon  re 
turning  to  America  had,  through  influential  friends,  obtained  for 
Levigne  a  lucrative  position  in  a  popular  American  institution,  where 
instrumental  and  vocal  music  were  specialties. 

It  was  to  this  institution  that  Marion  Evan  was  sent,  with  results 
already  known. 

The  shock  to  John  Morgan,  when  he  received  from  Marion  a  piti 
ful  letter,  telling  of  her  decision  and  marriage,  well-nigh  destroyed 


298  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

him.  The  mind  does  not  rally  and  reactions  are  uncertain  at  40. 
In  the  moment  of  his  despair  he  had  torn  up  her  letters  and*  hurled 
her  likeness  in  marble  far  out  to  the  deepest  part  of  the  lake.  Pride 
alone  prevented  him  following  it.  And  in  this  hour  of  gloom  the 
one  remaining  friend,  his  mother,  passed  from  life, 

The  public  never  knew  his  sufferings ;  he  drew  the  mantle  of  silence 
a  little  closer  around  him  and  sank  deeper  into  his  profession.  He 
soon  became  known  as  well  for  his  eccentricities  as  for  his  genius; 
and  presently  the  inherited  tendency  toward  alcoholic  drinks  found 
him  an  easy  victim.  Another  crisis  in  his  life  came  a  year  after  the 
downfall  of  his  air  castle,  and  just  as  the  south  was  preparing  to 
enter  upon  her  fatal  struggle. 

The  mother  of  Rita  had  passed  away,  and  so  had  the  young  woman's 
husband.  Rita  had  but  recently  returned  to  Ilexhurst,  when  one  night 
she  came  into  hisj  presence  drenched  with  rain  and  terrorized  by  the 
fierceness  of  an  electrical  storm  then  raging.  Speechless  from  exhaus 
tion  and  excitement  she  could  only  beckon  him  to  follow.  Upon  the 
bed  in  her  room,  out  in  the  broad  back  yard,  now  sharing  with  its 
occupant  the  mud  and  water  of  the  highway,  her  face  white  and  her 
disordered  hair  clinging  about  her  neck  and  shoulders,  lay  the  in 
sensible  form  of  the  only  girl  he  had  ever  loved — Marion  Evan,  as  he 
still  thought  of  her.  He  approached  the  bed  and  lifted  her  cold  hands 
and  called  htr  by  endearing  names,  but  she  did  not  answer  him.  Rita, 
the  struggle  over  had  sunk  into  semi-consciousness  upon  the  floor. 

When  the  family  physician  had  arrived  John  Morgan  had  placed 
Rita  upon  the  bed  and  had  borne  the  other  woman  in  his  arms  to  the 
mother's  room  upstairs,  and  stood  waiting  at  the  door.  While  the 
genial  old  practitioner  was  working  to  restore  consciousness  to  the 
young  woman  there,  a  summons  several  times  repeated  was  heard  at 
the  front  door.  Morgan  went  in  person  and  admitted  a  stranger, 
who  presented  a  card  that  bore  the  stamp  of  a  foreign  detective 
bureau.  Speaking  in  French  the  lawyer  gravely  welcomed  him  and 
led  the  way  to  the  library.  The  detective  opened  the  interview: 

"Have  you  received  my  report  of  th  14th  inst.,  M.  Morgan?" 

"Yes.     What  have  you  additional?" 

"This.  Mme.  Levigne  is  with  her  husband  and  now  in  this  city." 
Morgan  nodded  his  head. 

"So  I  have  been  informed."  He  went  to  the  desk  and  wrote  out 
a  check.  "When  do  you  purpose  returning?" 

"As  soon  as  possible,  monsieur;  to-morrow,  if  it  pleases  you." 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORD  299 

"I  will  call  upon  you  in  the  morning;  to-night  I  have  company 
that  demands  my  whole  time  and  attention.  If  I  fail,  here  is  your 
check.  You  have  been  very  successful." 

"Monsieur  is  very  kind.  I  have  not  lost  sight  of  Mine.  Levigne 
in  nearly  a  year  until  to-night.  Both  she  and  her  husband  have  left 
their  hotel;  temporarily  only  I  presume."  The  two  men  shook  hands 
and  parted. 

Upstairs  the  physician  met  Morgan  returning.  "The  lady  will 
soon  be  all  right;  she  has  rallied  and  as  soon  as  she  gets  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  opiate  I  have  given  and  into  dry  clothes,  will  be  out 
of  danger.  But  the  woman  in  the  servant's  house  is,  I  am  afraid, 
in  a  critical  condition." 

"Go  to  her,  please,"  said  Morgan  quickly.  Then  entering  the  room 
he  took  a  seat  by  the  side  of  the  young  woman — her  hand  in  his., 
Marion  looked  upon  his  grave  face  in  wonder  and  confusion.  Neither 
spoke.  Her  eyes  closed  at  last  in  slumber. 

Then  came  Mamie  Hester,  the  old  woman  who  had  nursed  him, 
one  of  those  family  servants  of  the  old  South,  whose  lips  never  learned 
how  to  betray  secrets. 

***** 

The  sun  rose  grandly  on  the  morning  that  Marion  left  Ixlehurst. 
She  pushed  back  her  heavy  veil,  letting  its  splendor  light  up  her 
pale  face  and  gave  her  hand  in  sad  farewell  to  John  Morgan.  Its 
golden  beams  almost  glorified  the  countenance  of  the  man;  or  was 
it  the  light  from  a  great  soul  shining  through? 

"A  mother's  prayers,"  she  said  brokenly.  "They  are  all  that  I 
can  give." 

"God  bless  and  protect  you  till  we  meet  again,"  he  said,  gently. 

She  looked  long  and  sadly  toward  the  eastern  horizon  in  whose 
belt  of  gray  woodland  lay  her  childhood  home,  lowered  her  veil  and 
hurried  away.  A  generation  would  pass  before  her  feet  returned 
upon  that  gravel  walk. 


300  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 
"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL" 

Mary  slept. 

The  blind  woman,  who  had  for  awhile  sat  silent  by  her  side,  slowly 
stroking  and  smoothing  the  girl's  extended  arm,  nodded,  her  chin 
resting  upon  her  breast. 

Gambia  alone  was  left  awake  in  the  room,  her  mind  busy  with  its 
past.  The  light  was  strong;  noiselessly  she  went  to  the  little  table  to 
lower  it.  There,  before  her,  lay  a  violin's  antique  case.  As  her  gaze 
fell  upon  it,  the  flame  sank  under  her  touch,  leaving  the  room  almost 
in  the  shadow.  The  box  was  rounded  at  the  ends  and  inlaid,  the 
central  design  being  a  curiously  interwoven  monogram.  Smothering 
an  exclamation,  she  seized  it  in  her  arms  and  listened,  looking  cau 
tiously  upon  her  companions.  The  elder  woman  lifted  her  head  and 
turned  sightless  eyes  toward  the  light,  then  passed  into  sleep  again. 

She  went  back  eagerly  to  the  box  and  tried  its  intricate  fasten 
ings;  but  in  the  dim  light  they  resisted  her  fingers,  and  she  dare  not 
turn  up  the  flame  again. 

From  the  veranda  in  front  came  the  murmur  of  men's  voices;  the 
house  was  silent.  Bearing  the  precious  burden  Gambia  went  quick 
ly  to  the  hallway  and  paused  for  a  moment  under  the  arch  that  di 
vided  it.  Overhead,  suspended  by  an  invisible  wire,  was  a  snow-white 
pigeon  with  wings  outspread;  behind  swayed  in  the  gentle  breeze  the 
foliage  of  the  trees.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  listening;  and  such  was 
the  picture  presented  to  Edward  as  he  clutched  the  arm  of  his 
companion  and  leaned  forward  with  strained  eyes  into  the  light. 

Guided  by  the  adjuncts  of  the  scene  he  recognized  at  once  a  familiar 
dream.  But  in  place  of  the  girl's  was  now  a  woman's  face. 

Another  caught  a  deeper  meaning  at  the  same  instant,  as  the 
general's  suppressed  breathing  betrayed. 

Gambia  heard  nothing;  her  face  was  pale,  her  hand  trembling. 
In  the  light  descending  upon  her  she  found  the  secret  fastenings  and 
the  lid  opened. 

Then  the  two  men  beheld  a  strange  thing;  the  object  of  that  ner 
vous  action  was  not  the  violin  itself.  A  string  accidentally  touched 
by  her  sparkling  ring  gave  out  a  single  minor  note  that  startled  her, 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  301 

but  only  for  a  second  did  she  pause  and  look  around.  Pressing  firm 
ly  upon  a  spot  near  the  inner  side  of  the  lid  she  drew  out  a  little 
panel  of  wood  and  from  the  shallow  cavity  exposed,  lifted  quickly 
several  folded  papers,  which  she  opened.  Then,  half  rising,  she 
wavered  and  sank  back  fainting  upon  the  floor.  The  silence  was 
broken.  A  cry  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  old  general. 

"Marion!  My  child."  In  an  instant  he  was  by  her  side  lifting  and 
caressing  her.  Speak  to  me,  daughter,"  he  said.  "It  has  been  long, 
so  long.  That  face,  that  face!  Child,  it  is  your  mother's  as  I  saw 
it  last.  Marion,  look  up;  it  is  I,  your  father."  And  then  he  ex 
claimed  despairingly,  as  she  did  not  answer  him,  "She  is  dead!" 

"It  is  not  serious,  General,"  said  Edward  hurriedly.  "See,  she 
is  reviving."  Gambia  steadied  herself  by  a  supreme  effort  and 
thrust  back  the  form  that  was  supporting  her. 

"Who  calls  Marion?"  she  cried  wildy.  "Marion  Evan  is  dead! 
Gambia  is  dead!  I  am  the  Countess  Levigne."  Her  voice  rang  out 
in  the  hall  and  her  clenched  hand  held  aloft,  as  though  she  feared  they 
might  seize  them,  the  papers  she  had  plucked  from  the  violin  case. 
Then  her  eyes  met  the  general's;  she  paused  in  wonder  and  looked 
longingly  into  his  aged  face.  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper:  "Father, 
father!  Is  it  indeed  you?  You  at  last?"  Clinging  to  the  hands  ex 
tended  toward  her  she  knelt  and  buried  her  face  in  them,  her  form 
shaking  with  sobs.  The  old  man's  tall  figure  swayed  and  trembled. 

"Not  there,  Marion,  my  child,  not  there  'Tis  I  who  should  kneel! 
God  forgive  me,  it  was  I  who — " 

"Hush,  father,  hush !  The  blame  was  mine.  But  I  have  paid  for  it 
with  agony,  with  the  better  years  of  my  life. 

"But  I  couldi  not  come  back  until  I  came  as  the  wife  of  the  man 
I  loved;  I  would  not  break  your  heart.  See!  I  have  the  papers.  It 
was  my  husband's  violin."  She  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom  and  let  the 
tears  flow  unchecked. 

Edward  was  standing,  white  and  silent,  gazing  upon  the  scene;  he 
could  not  tear  himself  away.  The  general,  his  voice  unsteady,  saw 
him  at  last.  A  smile  broke  through  his  working  features  and  shone 
in  his  tearful  eyes: 

"Edward,  my  boy,  have  you  no  word?  My  child  has  come  home!" 
Marion  lifted  her  face  and  drew  herself  from  the  sheltering  arms 
with  sudden  energy. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  gently  and  lovingly.  "Edward!"  Her  eyes 
grew  softer  and  seemed  to  caress  him  with  their  glances.  She  went  up 


302  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

to  him  and  placed  both  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  "His  child,  and 
your  mother!" 

"My  mother,  my  mother!"  The  words  were  whispers.  His  voice 
seemed  to  linger  upon  them. 

"Yes!  Gambia,  the  unhappy  Marion,  the  Countess  Levigne  and 
your  mother!  No  longer  ashamed  to  meet  you,  no  longer  an  exile! 
Your  mother,  free  to  meet  your  eyes  without  fear  of  reproach !" 

She  was  drawing  his  cheek  to  hers  as  she  spoke.  The  general  had 
come  nearer  and  now  she  placed  the  young  man's  hand  in  his. 

"But,"  said  Edward,  "Gerald!  You  called  him  your  son!"  She 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  turned  away  quickly.  "How  can 
it  be?  Tell  me  the  truth?"  She  looked  back  to  him  then  in  a  dazed  way. 
Finally  a  suspicion  of  his  difficulty  came  to  her.  "He  was  your  twin 
brother.  Did  you  not  know?  Alas,  poor  Gerald!" 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  man,  "it  was  then  true!" 

"Mother,"  he  said  softly,  lifting  her  face  to  his,  "Gerald  is  at 
peace.  Let  me  fulfill  all  the  hopes  you  cherished  for  both!" 

"God  has  showered  blessings  upon  me  this  night,"  said  the  gen 
eral  brokenly.  "Edward!"  The  two  men  clasped  hands  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  And,  radiant  by  their  side,  was  the  face  of 
Gambia! 

At  this  moment,  Mary,  who  had  been  awakened  by  their  excited 
voices,  her  hand  outstretched  toward  the  wall  along  which  she  had 
crept,  came  and  stood  near  them,  gazing  in  wonder  upon  their  beam 
ing  faces.  With  a  bound  Edward  reached  her  side  and  with  an  arm 
about  her  came  to  Gambia. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "here  is  your  daughter."  As  Gambia  clasped 
her  lovingly  to  her  bosom  he  acquainted  Mary  with  what  had  oc 
curred.  And  then,  happy  in  her  wonder  and  smiles,  Edward  and 
Mary  turned  away  and  discussed  the  story  with  the  now  fully  awaken 
ed  little  mother. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "I  can  ask  of  you  this  precious  life  and  be  your 
son  indeed!"  Mary's  head  was  in  her  mother's  lap. 

"She  has  loved  you  a  long  time,  Edward;  she  is  already  yours." 

Presently  he  went  upon  the  veranda,  where  father  and  daughter 
were  exchanging  holy  confidences,  and,  sitting  by  his  mother's  side, 
heard  the  particulars  of  her  life  and  bitter  experience  abroad. 

"When  Mr.  Morgan  went  to  you,  father,  and  stated  a  hypothetical 
case  and  offered  to  find  me,  and  you,  outraged,  suffering,  declared 
that  I  could  only  return  when  I  had  proofs  of  my  marriage,  I  was 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  303 

without  them.  Mr.  Morgan  sent  me  money  to  pay  our  expenses  home 
— Gaspard's  and  mine — and  we  did  come,  he  unwilling  and  fearing 
violence,  for  dissipation  had  changed  his  whole  nature.  Then,  he 
had  been  informed  of  my  one-time  engagement  to  Mr.  Morgan,  and 
he  was  well  acquainted  with  that  gentleman  and  indebted  to  him 
for  money  loaned  upon  several  occasions.  He  came  to  America 
with  me  upon  Mr.  Morgan's  guaranty,  the  sole  condition  imposed  upon 
him  being  that  he  should  bring  proofs  of  our  marriage;  and  had  he 
continued  to  rely  upon  that  guaranty,  had  he  kept  his  word,  there 
would  have  been  no  trouble.  But  on  the  day  we  reached  this  city 
he  gave  way  to  temptation  again  and  remembered  all  my  threats  to 
leave  him.  In  our  final  interview  he  became  suddenly  jealous,  and 
declared  there  was  a  plot  to  separate  us,  and  expressed  a  determina 
tion  to  destroy  the  proofs. 

"It  was  then  that  I  determined  to  act,  and  hazarded  everything 
upon  a  desperate  move.  I  resolved  to  seize  my  husband's  violin,  not 
knowing  where  his  papers  were,  and  hold  it  as  security  for  my  proofs. 
I  thought  the  plan  would  succeed;  did  not  his  love  for  that  instru- 
iment  exceed  all  other  passions?  I  had  written  to  Rita,  engaging 
to  meet  her  on  a  certain  night  at  a  livery  stable,  where  we  were  to 
take  a  buggy  and  proceed  to  Ilexhurst.  The  storm  prevented.  Gas- 
pard  had  followed  me,  and  at  the  church  door  tore  the  instrument  from 
my  arms  and  left  me  insensible.  Rita  carried  me  in  her  strong 
arms  three  miles  to  Ilexhurst,  and  it  cost  her  the  life  of  the  child 
that  was  born  and  died  that  night. 

"Poor,  poor  Rita!  She  herself  had  been  all  but  dead  when  my 
boys  were  born  a  week  later,  and  the  idea  that  one  of  them  was  her 
own  was  the  single  hallucination  of  her  mind.  The  boys  were  said  to 
somewhat  resemble  her.  Rita's  mother  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
to  Mrs.  Morgan's  family,  as  you  have  perhaps  heard,  and  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  related  to  our  family,  so  the  resemblance  may  be  ex 
plained  in  that  way.  Mr.  Morgan  never  could  clear  up  this  halluci 
nation  of  Rita's,  and  so  the  matter  rested  that  way.  It  could  do 
no  harm  under  the  circumstances,  and  might — " 

"No  harm?"     Edward  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No  harm.  You,  Edward,  were  sent  away,  and  it  was  early  seen 
that  poor  Gerald  would  be  delicate  and  probably  an  invalid.  For1 
my  troubles,  my  flight,  had — .  The  poor  woman  gave  her  life  to  the 
care  of  my  children.  Heaven  bless  her  forever!" 

Gambia  waited  in  silence  a  moment  and  then  continued: 


304  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

"As  soon  as  I  could  travel  I  made  a  business  transaction  of  it,  and 
borrowed  of  my  friend,  John  Morgan.  He  had  acquainted  me  with 
the  conditions  upon  which  I  should  be  received  at  home;  and  now  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  meet  them.  Gaspard  was  gone.  I  thought 
I  could  find  him;  I  never  did,  until  blind,  poor,  aged  and  dying,  he 
sent  for  me." 

"John  Morgan  was  faithful.  He  secured  vocal  teachers  for  me  in 
Paris  and  then  an  engagement  to  sing  in  public.  I  sang,  and  from 
that  night  my  money  troubles  ended. 

"Mr.  Morgan  stayed  by  me  in  Paris  until  my  career  was  assured. 
Then,  in  obedience  to  his  country's  call  he  came  back  here,  running  the 
blockade,  and  fought  up  to  Appomattox." 

"As  gallant  a  fire-eater,"  said  the  general,  "as  ever  shouldered 
a  gun.  And  he  refused  promotion  on  three  occasions." 

"I  can  readily  understand  that,"  said  Gambia.  "His  modesty  was 
only  equaled  by  his  devotion  and  courage. 

"He  visited  me  again  when  the  war  ended,  and  we  renewed  the 
search.  After  that  came  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  the  siege  of  Paris 
and  the  commune,  destroying  all  trails.  But  I  sang  on  and  search 
ed  on.  When  I  seemed  to  have  exhausted  the  theaters  I  tried  the 
prisons.  And  so  the  years  passed  by. 

"In  the  meantime  Mr.  Morgan  had  done  a  generous  thing;  never 
for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  me."  She  paused,  struggling  with  a  sudden 
emotion,  and  then:  "He  had  heard  my  statement — it  was  not  like 
writing,  Father,  he  had  heard  it  from  my  lips — and  when  the  position 
of  my  boys  became  embarrassing  he  gave  them  his  own  name,  formal 
ly  adopting  them  while  he  was  in  Paris." 

'*God  bless  him!"     It  was  the  general's  voice. 

"And  after  that  I  felt  easier.  Every  week,  in  all  the  long  years 
that  have  passed,  brought  me  letters;  every  detail  in  their  lives  was 
known  to  me;  and  of  yours,  Father.  I  knew  all  your  troubles.  Mr. 
Morgan  managed  it.  And,"  she  continued  softly,  "I  felt  your  embar 
rassments  when  the  war  ended.  Mr.  Morgan  offered  you  a  loan — " 

"Yes,  but  I  could  not  accept  from  him — " 

"It  was  from  me,  Father;  it  was  mine;  and  it  was  my  money  that 
cared  for  my  boys.  Yes,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head  proudly,  "Mr. 
Morgan  understood;  he  let  me  pay  back  everything,  and  when  he 
died  it  was  my  money,  held  in  private  trust  by  him,  that  constituted 
the  bulk  of  the  fortune  left  by  him  for  my  boys.  I  earned  it  before 
the  footlights,  but  honestly! 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  305 

"Well,  when  poor  Gaspard  died — " 

"He  is  dead,  then?" 

"Ah!  of  course  you  do  not  know.  To-morrow  I  will  tell  you  his 
story.  I  stood  by  his  body  and  at  his  grave,  and  I  knew  Edward. 
I  had  seen  him  many  times.  Poor  Gerald!  My  eyes  have  never 
beheld  him  since  I  took  him  in  my  arms  that  day,  a  baby,  and  kissed 
him  good — "  She  broke  down  and  wept  bitterly.  "Oh,  it  was  pitiful, 
pitiful!" 

After  awhile  she  lifted  her  face. 

"My  husband  had  written  briefly  to  his  family  just  before  death, 
the  letter  to  be  mailed  after;  and  thus  they  knew  of  it.  But  they 
did  not  know  the  name  he  was  living  under.  His  brother,  to  inherft 
the  title  and  property,  needed  proof  of  death  and  advertised  in  Eurb- 
pean  papers  for  it.  He  also  advertised  for  the  violin.  It  was  this 
that  suggested  to  me  the  hiding  place  of  the  missing  papers.  Before 
my  marriage  Gaspard  had  once  shown  me  the  little  slide.  It  had 
passed  from  my  memory.  But  Gambia's  wits  were  sharper  and  the 
description  supplied  the  link.  I  went  to  Silesia  and  made  a  trade 
with  the  surviving  brother,  giving  up  my  interest  in  certain  mines 
for  the  name  of  the  person  who  held  the  violin.  Gaspard  had  de 
scribed  him  to  me  in  his  letter  as  a  young  American  named  Morgan. 
The  name  was  nothing  to  the  brother;  it  was  everything  to  roe.  I 
came  here  determined,  first  to  search  for  the  papers,  and,  failing 
in  that,  to  go  home  to  you,  my  father.  God  has  guided  me." 

She  sat  silent,  one  hand  in  her  father's*  the  other  clasped  lovingly 
in  her  son's.  It  was  a  silence  none  cared  to  break.  But  Edward, 
from  time  to  time,,  as  his  mind  reviewed  the  past,  lifted  tenderly  to 

his  lips  the  hand  of  Gambia. 

***** 

Steadily  the  ocean  greyhound  plowed  its  way  through  the  dark 
swells  of  the  Atlantic.  A  heavy  bank  of  clouds  covered  the  eastern 
sky  almost  to  the  zenith,  its  upper  edges  paling  in  the  glare  of  the 
full  moon  slowly  ascending  beyond. 

The  night  was  pleasant,  the  decks  crowded.  A  young  man  and 
a  young  woman  sat  by  an  elderly  lady,  hand  in  hand.  They  had  been 
talking  of  a  journey  made  the  year  previous  upon  the  same  vessel, 
when  the  ocean  sang  a  new  sweet  song.  They  heard  it  again  this 
night  and  were  lost  in  dreams,  when  the  voice  of  a  well-known  novel 
ist,  who  was  telling  a  story  to  a  charmed  circle,  broke  in: 

"It  was  my  first  journey  upon  the  ocean.     We  had  been  greatly 


306  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

interested  in  the  little  fellow  because  he  was  a  waif  from  the  great 
Parisian  world,  and  although  at  that  time  tenderly  cared  for  by  the 
gentle  woman  who  had  become  his  benefactress,  somehow  he  seemed 
to  carry  with  him  another  atmosphere,  of  loneliness — of  isolation. 
Think  of  it,  a  motherless  babe  afloat  upon  the  ocean.  It  was  the 
pathos  of  life  made  visible.  He  did  not  realize  it,  but  every  heart 
there  beat  in  sympathy  with  his,  and  when  it  was  whispered  that  the 
little  voyager  was  dead,  I  think  every  eye  was  wet  with  tears.  Dead, 
almost  consumed  by  fever.  With  him  had  come  the  picture  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman.  He  took  it  with  him  beneath  the 
little  hands  upon  his  breast.  That  night  he  was  laid  to  rest.  Never 
had  motherless  babe  such  a  burial.  Gently,  as  though  there  were 
danger  of  waking  him,  we  let  him  sink  into  the  dark  waters,  there 
to  be  rocked  in  the  lap  of  the  ocean  until  God's  day  dawns  and  the 
seas  give  up  their  dead.  That  was  thirty  years  ago;  yet  tonight  I 
aeem  to  see  that  little  shrouded  form  slip  down  and  down  and 
down  into  the  depths.  God  grant  that  its  mother  was  dead." 

When  he  ceased  the  elder  woman  in  the  little  group  had  bent  her 
head  and  was  silently  weeping. 

**It  sounds  like  a  page  from  the  early  life  of  Gaspard  Levigne,"  she 
said  to  her  companions. 

And  then  to  the  novelist,  in  a  voice  brimming  over  with  tender 
ness:  "Grieve  not  for  the  child,  my  friend.  God  has  given  wings 
to  love.  There  is  no  place  in  all  His  universe  that  can  hide  a  baby 
from  its  mother.  Love  will  find  a  way,  be  the  ocean  as  wide  and  deep 
as  eternity  itself." 

And  then,  as  they  sat  wondering,  the  moon  rose  above  the  clouds. 
Light  flashed  upon  the  waves  around  them,  and  a  golden  path,  stretch 
ing  out  ahead,  crossed  the  far  horizon  into  the  misty  splendors  of  the 
sky. 


THE  END. 


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